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V'v. ■ 






HOW WILL IT END? 



HOW WILL IT END? 


A ROMANCE. 


J 


BY 


J. C. HEYWOOD, 

AUTHOR OF ** HERODIAS/' *^ANTONIUS/' SALOME," ETC 



PHILADELPHIA : 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1872. 


■^ 1 .% 




Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.. 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 


J 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. — Entangled 7 

II. — Pledge of Love 16 

III. — A Patriot 26 

IV. — Persons and Plots 35 

V. — Man and Horse 43 

VI. — Love and Politics — Horse and Horse — Flight and Pursuit... 49 

VII. — Regret 60 

VIII. — Forest and Night — Mourning — The Hunt 63 

IX.’ — Sisters of Charity — ^Wounded 73 

X. — Faith wrongly placed 81 

XI. — Faith rightly placed 87 

XI I. — ^Thoughts — Plans — An Interview — Interruption 94 

XHI. — Confidences — A Clue — A Departure 104 

XIV. — Brother and Sister — Friends meet no 

XV. — Forebodings 118 

XVI. — The Letter — All for Love 122 

XVI I. — The Letter, continued — Cleaving 128 

XVI 1 1. — The Letter, continued — All for Money 136 

XIX. — The Letter, continued — Severing 148 

XX. — Recognized 153 

XXL — Proposal for an Alliance Otfensive and Defensive 159 

XXII. — Embarrassments — ^A Gem gives Light — A Forerunner 167 

XXI 1 1. — A Disclosure 175 

XXIV. — Confidence restored 180 

XXV.— The Words of the Letter •.. 184 

I* ■ (v) 


CONTENTS. 


VI 


CHAPTER , 

XXVI.— Tempted 

'^’XXVII. — Checked, not Mated 

XXVIII.— Entoiled 

;XXIX.— Making Ready.. ...t 

' XXX. — Father and ‘Daughter 

I XXXI. — Who were behind the Wood, 

s XXXII. — In the Enemy’s Camp 

XXXIII.— The Trial 

XXXIV.— Isolated 

• xxxy.— A Lucky Shpt 

XXXyi.— Helpless 

XXXVII.— A, Bargain 

XXXVIII.— Glad Tidings 

XXXIX. — ^An Explanation 

XL. — A Stone bears Witness 

XLI. — Sounding Brass 

XLIL— Always 

XLIII. — An InvitSiJldn:.. 

XLIV.— A Feast.... 

XLV.— ?.: 


PAGE 

i88 

192 
, 201 
206 
213 
218 
223 
228 
232 
236 
242 
247 

253 

. 258 
267 
276 
284 
, 289 

■ 293 
299 


HOW WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER I. 

ENTANGLED. 

A GREAT civil war was drawing to its close. Few 
suspected, even, that its termination was so near. Both 
parties were actively carrying on operations in the field, 
and busily preparing for future campaigns, as if both still 
expected a long and severe struggle and were each de- 
termined to conquer. Skirmishes and battles were fought, 
prisoners taken, and confined, paroled, or exchanged, and 
numberless slain left unburied in lonely places where they 
fell, or hidden from the sight of men in nameless graves. 
Yet spring came back to the earth, as joyous, as gentle, 
as beautiful as ever, with even a greater wealth of flowers 
and sweetness than usual. For the earth, torn and tram- 
pled, or turned above the nameless graves, blushed with 
the bloom of new flowerets, which, in the eternal order of 
events, had waited ages, it may be, for this turning and 
trampling to bring them into light and life, and now 
came forth by millions, fresh, innocent, and smiling. 

On a rustic seat, shaded from the warm rays of an April 
morning sun by the spreading branches of a tree which was 
already in full leaf, sat two officers. At a short distance 

( 7 ) 


8 


IfOPF WILL IT END? 


from them, through flowering shrubs and avenues of oaks, 
could be seen the piazzas of a gentleman’s country-house ; 
the pillars half concealed by luxuriant vines, whose blos- 
soms filled the air with fragrance. Occasionally sweet 
chords of music might be heard from the mansion, as 
if a harp were struck by skilled hands in the intervals of 
conversation. But the officers seemed to take no heed 
of the music, nor, indeed, of anything about them, further 
than to make sure that they were not overheard. 

One of them, who was addressed by his companion 
sometimes as colonel, sometimes simply as Allerton, was, 
apparently, about twenty-eight years of age, rather above 
the medium stature, finely formed, easy and graceful in 
his deportment, at the same time that a certain dignity, a 
kind of manly majesty, commanded at once the respect 
even of strangers. His hair, nearly black, was cut rather 
short ; his forehead was high and bare, and a dark but 
not heavy beard shaded his cheeks and covered his upper 
lip and chin. His eyes, which, though many shades from 
it, appeared to be black, were deep and tranquil, but 
could evidently flash on occasion. His nose was rather 
aquiline than straight, with a delicate nostril ; and his 
mouth indicated firmness and mastery of himself. His 
complexion, naturally dark, was bronzed by the exposures 
of the camp and the field. 

His companion, whom he sometimes addressed as cap- 
tain, sometimes as Bulldon, and sometimes intimately as 
Bull, was somewhat younger, tall, broad-shouldered, and 
muscular, with a form admirably developed. His eyes 
were gray and full of vivacity ; his complexion ruddy ; 
his hair,jiioustache, and whiskers, very light auburn ; and 
his features almost Grecian in their symmetry. 

‘‘ I wish to escape from this place as much as you can,” 
said Allerton. Do you think I need urging? My wound 


ENTANGLED. 


9 

is healed, and the only fever from which I now suffer is 
that of impatience.’^ 

‘‘Are you quite sure of that?” put in Bulldon, signifi- 
cantly. 

“ Point out to me the way, and show me that the time 
is propitious, and you shall see if I am laggard,” con- 
tinued Allerton, without appearing to notice the other’s 
question. 

“ But men in earnest make the time propitious in which 
they choose to act, since it looks on their achievements,” 
said Bulldon. “They make themselves away, and, ad- 
vancing in it, surprise success. All ways are safe and 
every hour is friendly in which men conquer.” 

“Excellent maxims,” returned the colonel; “but 
what then becomes of prudence ?’ ’ 

“ Prudence,” replied the captain, “is not a well-barred 
fortress in which men safely rest, but the armor of proof 
which they wear in action.” 

“Let us dispense with rhetoric, and metaphors, and 
metaphysics,” retorted the other, just a little impatiently. 
“If you have something practical to propose, out with 
it.” 

“It is easy for me to propose a plan,” said Bulldon ; 
“but hard to make it agreeable, so long as you are held 
in the spell of that witch of a girl ” 

“ Nonsense !” broke in the other. 

“If it please you to say ‘nonsense,’ — why, say it. But 
it would not please me, for I should not like to appear 
absurd. You must think me a very stupid fellow, quite 
unfit to take care of my head in the enemy’s country, if 
you believe I am not almost as well informed as yourself 
in regard to the state of affairs about me. No, Allerton, 
this is no time for shamming with rne. Let me tell you 
at once that I have seen the proofs of what I insinuate, — 


lO 


HOW WILL IT END? 


yes, and heard them, too, because I could not help hearing 
sometimes what was not intended for my ears/^ 

‘‘If I should admit the truth of what you say 

“ I should think it more friendly and more manly than 
to deny it ; that is all/* 

“ Do you know. Bull,’* said the colonel, turning quickly, 
and laying his hand on the other’s arm, — “do you know 
I have been wishing to tell you the whole story? I do love 
that girl, and I should be a fool and a brute if I did not.” 

“ Query as to the folly of not loving her,” struck dn 
Bulldon. 

“Her forgetfulness of self,” continued Allerton, with 
increased animation, “her sympathy, her gentleness, her 
care of me while I was ill, her tenderness, her trusting 
nature, her spirit, her wit, her beauty, completely mastered 
me, and I surrendered unconditionally, never thinking 
even of the honors of war ; and by my surrender I con- 
quered in turn, for I was taken into the very heart of the 
fortress, and have won over all the garrison.” 

“The tenderness did the business. You dark-eyed 
fellows never can stand that, when you think it is meant 
for yourselves,” said Bulldon; adding, quietly, “And 
what do you propose to do with the garrison now?” 

“You propose that I should abandon it,” replied 
Allerton. 

“No matter, for the present, what I propose,” said the 
captain. “ Tell me what you intend.” 

“Simply to do my duty; to leave this place and pass 
over to our forces as soon as possible,” answered the 
colonel. 

“And leave Marion here?” asked Bulldon. 

“ It must be so ; there is no help for it,” said the other, 
sadly enough, and with a certain sternness, as if he were 
passing sentence upon himself. 


ENTANGLED, 


II 


And you have told her nothing? She knows nothing, 
but still believes we are of her party?'* 

‘‘Certainly she thinks so. I have not dared even to 
intimate anything different ; not so much, I fear, be- 
cause our safety must depend upon our keeping up the 
deception, as because I dread the effect of the truth 
upon her feelings for me, since she regards the cause 
in which her friends are engaged almost as if it were her 
religion." 

“ She suspects nothing?" 

“ She ? Marion is too truthful herself to suspect others." 

“But I will tell you who does suspect us, — that d — d 
politician ; and that is another, and an urgent, reason 
why we should be off." 

“ I do not think that he suspects us, I believe he sus- 
pects me of being his rival, for he is in love either with 
Miss Marion or with her fortune. ' ' 

“Oh, he is too selfish to love any person, and too 
patriotic — that is, he would seem so, d — n him ! — to love 
anything but ‘my country,' and too politic to love any- 
thing but money, and too much of a politician not to 
hide, or, at least, try to hide, the real love by the sham. 
If he regards you as a dangerous rival, his wits, ears, and 
eyes will be sharpened, and we cannot too soon get be- 
yond their reach." 

“I confess," said Allerton, “that when I think, out 
of action and in cool blood, of turning my guns on the 
brave, honest fellows whom he, and others like him, have 
deceived, irritated, and sent angry to the field in this 
quarrel, my heart shrinks from it, and I regard mine as 
one of the most mournful, although one of the most im- 
perative, of a good man’s duties. But, if I could fix a 
platoon of such fellows as he within range of my batteries, 
I think I would not allow a single gun to be fired except 


12 


I/O tv WILL IT END? 


by my own hand ; and you may believe I would not waste 
my shot/^ /" 

This disguise is very irksome,” said Bulldon. Do 
you know that one reason why I am so importunate to get 
away from here is that I cannot muster patience much 
longer to play this part and seem even to tolerate our 
distinguished friend ? I have not the same party feeling 
as you, of course, but I may honestly detest a sneak 
wherever I find him.” 

‘‘Yes, we must go, and at once. Everything urges our 
departure. There will be sharp work soon very near 
here, and we cannot be idle, even if it were safe for us to 
remain so. But that poor girl, — what shall I do ” 

“ Bah !” interrupted the captain. 

“This is a rascally piece of business, Bulldon,” con- 
tinued the colonel. “But you know, as well as I, that 
I had no intention of deceiving her, — had no knowledge, 
even, of her existence, when we passed ourselves off so 
successfully as belonging to her party. I sometimes wish 
we had not been so fortunate, or unfortunate, as to suc- 
ceed. For what would have been the sufferings of a few 
months of confinement, even in the worst of their prisons, 
compared with what I must suffer now, knowing, as I do, 
what I must make her suffer?” 

“If you are only troubled by apprehensions of, and 
sympathy with, sorrows which she must feel, you may be 
quite at your ease. Her heart shall not break for you, 
tliat I will warrant.” 

“You think she does not love me?” 

“ I will not say that; on the contrary, perhaps she does. 
But it is in the modern way. Women do not love danger- 
ously nowadays. At least, not with danger to themselves. 
There is a metallic quality in their hearts which prevents 
combustion and explosion.'^ ^ 


ENTANGLED, 


13 


^^You wrong Marion outrageously when you apply such 
remarks to her. She has, in its greatest intensity, the 
womanly spirit of self-abnegation and self-sacrifice.’* 

I will lay you a wager that her friend, the pettifogging 
puppy ” 

Her friendl” broke in Allerton, scornfully. 

‘‘Yes, — that he is now making love to her in the house, 
yonder, and that she listens with complacency, if not with 
pleasure. * ’ 

“ But I know she dislikes him.” 

“ Granted. Yet she likes to hear him say he is dying 
for her, all the same ; and it would not be the first time a 
woman has risked the loss of an honest man’s love for the 
sake of hearing a knave utter protestations of devotion.” 

“ I tell you she would listen to nothing of the kind.” 

“And yet I can see that you are impatient to cut the 
patriotic Clappergong’s ears off, because you think that 
what I say is possible.” 

“If what you say were true, it would only prove what 
a poor philosopher I am. Why should I desire to punish 
him for wishing to obtain what I would myself have, but 
must abandon ? — for she can never be mine ; I know it. ’ * 

“ Then it is agreed that we shall leave ?” 

“As soon as possible.” 

“ To-day?” 

“ This very evening. I am to ride with Marion after 
the heat of the day is passed, as I have already done sev- 
eral times. You shall wait for me at some point to be 
agreed on. During our ride I shall undeceive her, — tell 
her the whole truth ; and, whatever her decision, I shall be 
able to join you in time. Am I a coward, Bulldon?” 

“ He would be either a brave man, or a fool, who should 
dare to say so. Why such a question ?” ^ 

“Because I am afraid to tell the truth to this sweet, 


2 


u 


HOir WILL IT END? 


trusting, loving girl. I think I would rather skulk from 
the face of an enemy; and that, in my estimation, re- 
quires more courage, of a certain kind, than a brave man 
ever possessed.’^ 

Do not undeceive her, then, at present; but '' 

Ah, that would be cowardly and cruel to the last 
degree.” 

Well, do as you will. But mind you do not let that 
girl play upon you, and keep you talking, sighing, and 
making a fool of yourself generally. That lovers should 
never wish to be overheard is not surprising. It is a 
healthful indication, for it proves that they retain reason 
enough to know what ninnies they are, and to make them 
desire to conceal their folly.” 

An indication, then, that love sharpens their wits and 
makes wise men of them. Do not fear. You shall not 
wait for me.” 

Unless that charming creature should shed a tear or 
two. Let me tell you that in a week she would shed just 
as many for another.” 

‘‘I would not think as you do for the world, Bulldon. 
You are always speaking lightly of woman’s constancy. 
You must have had a sad experience.” 

‘‘Experience!” repeated the other, bitterly; and his 
usually gay, and somewhat reckless, mood seemed sud- 
denly to change. An expression of ineffable sadness stole 
over his handsome face, as he continued, with a voice that 
betrayed much emotion, “Experience! I never told 
you my experience. Why should I ? We have had livelier 
and more agreeable topics of conversation during the few 
months that chance has thrown us intimately together. 
And, besides, it always makes me blue to talk of my- 
self.” 

“ Yet it is something which we all do, at times, impelled 


ENTANGLED. 


15 

by instinctive yearnings for sympathy in our joys and 
sorrows. ^ ’ 

know it, and my time has come, I suppose. Not 
because my desire for sympathy is uncontrollable, — I have 
learned to dispense with that ; and pity I despise, for it 
intimates inferiority in its object. Sympathy, on the con- 
trary, implies equality between those who feel together, 
and might be tolerable, even delightful. But I have been 
taught how not to seek rather than how to find it. I am 
impelled by a strange feeling, which you may call a pre- 
sentiment, if you like, — and so would I, if I believed in 
such things, — that my story, if told to you at all, must 
be told here.’' 

Poh ! The presentiment is all nonsense. Do not tell 
me anything if it be not agreeable to do so ; or tell it 
some other time. You may continue to sneer at woman’s 
sincerity, and I will suppose you have some good reason 
for the want of faith that is in you. We shall soon be in 
active service again, and your presentiment will be knocked 
to pieces, like any other baseless fabric. ’ ’ 

‘‘ No, if you please, I will speak now, and ever after 
hold my peace.” 

shall listen with the greatest interest.” 


i6 


J/OfV WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER II. 

A PLEDGE OF LOVE. 

‘^I HAVE two reasons for wishing to make you some- 
what acquainted with my history/^ said Bulldon, after a 
few minutes' silence, in which he seemed to collect him- 
self ; and he now spoke in a low, deep voice, that almost 
startled Allerton, so different was it from his usual cheer- 
ful tone in conversation. But the ironical, mocking 
spirit, that so frequently flashed through his phrases, still 
remained. His eyes lost their sparkling vivacity, and 
grew soft and sad in their expression. ‘‘One reason is 
that which you have just mentioned, namely, that we shall 
soon be in action. We both know the risks we are to run 
before we reach our friends, and I am determined not to 
be taken prisoner again. The fact sounds badly, when 
talked of, and the life does not suit me. Even if we cross 
the lines in safety, we shall find work enough to keep us 
from gossiping for some time to come ; and it is hard to 
tell what may occur in that time. If anything should 
happen to me, I should wish some one to know as much as 
I am going to tell you. It might, in possible contingen- 
cies, be serviceable ; and I am acquainted with nobody 
whose discretion and honor I would trust so soon as your 
own." 

“ My dear fellow !" exclaimed the colonel; but Bulldon 
interrupted him by saying, — 

“No matter: let me go on." And he continued: 
“The second reason is that, without knowing anything 
of my history, you have never asked me a personal ques- 


A PLEDGE OF LOVE, 


17 


tion, but have always treated me with the courtesy, con- 
sideration, and confidence which might be shown to a 
gentleman whose shield was covered with family indorse- 
ments, but hardly to be expected by a person whose 
parentage is so entirely unknown as is mine to you.’^ 

I have always believed,’’ said Allerton, ‘‘ that I could 
distinguish a gentleman when 1 saw him, though he wore no 
label ; an appendage rather superfluous than otherwise, and 
sometimes deceptive, according to my way of thinking.” 

‘‘ Nevertheless I owe it to you, as a matter of delicacy 
and honor,” replied Bulldon, ‘^to inform you whom you 
have thus distinguished. And let me tell you, in the first 
place, that I have no family, no family has me, and I am 
nobody.” 

‘ ‘ Stuff ! ’ ’ exclaimed Allerton . 

‘^Simple truth,” replied Bulldon. ‘‘Oh, I have good 
blood in my veins, sir, — royal blood, as to that ; but I am 
nobody, as you shall see. 

“ Once upon a time a young man, some of whose an-- 
cestors had sat upon a throne, and who, since, has been 
widely known as Lord X., went into foreign parts, where 
he remained some six months or more, amusing himself, 
or completing his education, or both. While there, he met 
the daughter of a gentleman, a young lady for whose 
beauty I can vouch, having seen her frequently at one 
period of my life, and with her amused himself to such 
effect that, when he went home, she went with him. If 
the events which I am recounting had happened several 
centuries earlier, doubtless she would have accompanied 
him as his page ; but, as the facts really occurred, he went 
as her servant, her slave, he himself asserted; and she 
was, consequently, his mistress. Of course her parents 
never gave their consent that she should occupy this ex- 
alted position ; nor was it asked. Yet several letters were, 


i8 


I/OfV WILL IT END? 


as I understand, written by her to them after her trans- 
lation to the earthly paradise, but no answers were ever 
received. 

At length, in the natural course of things, a child was 
born, — a pledge of love, I believe, it is usually called ; be- 
cause, as I suppose, the pledge is, in the first place, held 
as a kind of security, but in the end generally allowed to 
remain in the hands of one of the parties, as the only full 
and final payment of the debt by the other. In this 
pledge both the slave and the mistress felt a parental in- 
terest ; that is, they might naturally have done so. The 
mistress, having few or no associates, and living a lonely 
life enough, except when the slave was occasionally with 
her for a few hours at a time, assumed the duties of a 
mother with affectionate pleasure, and soon learned to 
understand all the cryings and crowings and cooings and 
strange sounds made by the infant, so that she could carry 
on a long conversation with him and laugh joyously at 
his young wit. 

But it came to pass, in the course of time, that thoughts 
of freedom entered the slave’s mind, and he wished to be 
emancipated. So he sold himself to, and married, a high- 
born lady, whose dower was an earldom. And the mis- 
tress, having no more a slave, was a mistress no longer ; 
and the slave, having a wife, was a free man. 

‘‘Meanwhile the pledge of love had grown till he was 
big enough to know himself a pledge of love, forfeited. 
His schoolfellows told him this often enough, and he 
would have learned it from the servants, when they were 
angry with him, if the schoolfellows had held their 
tongues ; for servants helped to take care of him. Lord 
X. wished him to receive a good, manly education, and 
made provision for the pledge and his mother ; for he had 
a mother, a sad, pale, weeping, beautiful mother, all alone 


A PLEDGE OF LOVE. 


19 


in the world, as it seemed to him when he used to try to 
comfort her, telling what brave things he would do when 
he should be a man. 

^‘Well, he became a man, — a very young one, but 
thoroughly developed ; for he had flogged, or tried to flog, 
many a daring youngster who had called him bastard ; 
and, standing alone, as he did, without a father, his mind 
was also precociously matured, and he was self-poised and 
ready for the arena of life at sixteen. 

When he was about that age, walking with his mother 
one day, they met a gentleman in the street, at sight of 
whom she stopped suddenly, turned very pale, and ex- 
tended her arms, exclaiming, ‘Brother!’ The gentle- 
man looked at her for an instant, his face flushed, he 
muttered something very like an oath, and passed on. 
And then the mother fainted away. And the boy, not 
knowing what to think, and in terror, carried her into a 
neighboring shop, where she soon recovered, and wept 
bitterly. She had never told the boy anything of her 
family, and he never asked her ; for he had too much 
respect, and too much delicacy in his affection, to run the 
risk of wounding her by questions in regard to a history 
which he felt, intuitively, must be painful. He would 
gladly have listened to what she should voluntarily tell 
him of her own story; but that was nothing, and he 
remained in ignorance. He only learned, by the painful 
incident just mentioned, that she had a brother who dis- 
owned her. He had remarked, too, that this brother was 
a tall, handsome, dignified, rather haughty-looking man. 
Not till some time later did he know, and then by acci- 
dent, that a few days after their meeting in the street she 
sought out this brother, and, by surprising him, secured 
an interview, in which he denounced her as the murderess 
of her father and mother, alleging that her evil conduct 


20 


WILL IT END? 


and desertion of them had hastened their deaths, calling 
her the eternal disgrace of his family, and saying many 
other terrible things to her ; and that the long and fearful 
illness, which had caused him so much anxiety, solicitude, 
and suffering on her account, was produced by this inter- 
view. 

For some years the boy had seen very little of Lord X., 
whom he had come to regard with aversion, as a person 
who had very ill treated his beautiful mother. But he 
could not complain that my lord had been ungenerous to 
him, so far, at least, as money was concerned ; for he had 
made such provision as secured to the young man an inde- 
^pendent fortune, sufficient for a gentleman ; and that was 
much to do for one who had no claim on him, you know. 

Now, not very long after this meeting of the brother 
and sister, the mother, who hardly ceased to weep, and 
was tenderer and more affectionate than ever, held a long 
talk with the boy, one evening, giving him much excel- 
lent advice, and repeating maxims and injunctions which 
she had often urged on him before. He was to enter the 
army, — in fact, had already obtained his commission, and 
the next day was to join his regiment. She bade him 
good-night with tears, kissing him many times, and, as 
he left her, the last words he heard were, ^Be good.^ 
The next morning she was nowhere to be found. But a 
small package, addressed to him, lay on her table. It 
contained her miniature, a lock of her hair, and a sealed 
letter ; also a note telling him to think of her thenceforth 
as dead, expressing many prayers, and protestations of 
affection, and enjoining upon him never to open the 
sealed letter till his own death should be near. This is 
the miniature, and this the sealed letter. 

Here Bulldon took a little leathern casket from his 
bosom, where he wore it suspended from his neck. 


A PLEDGE OF LOVE. 


21 


How beautiful ! What an angelic face !” exclaimed 
Allerton, as he looked at the picture with tender interest. 

It is a very truthful portrait,” said Bulldon, and con- 
tinued : was in very great distress, did not know which 

way to turn, nor what to do. I should have opened and 
read this letter then and there, but for the reverent love 
which had made me always obedient to my mother’s 
wishes, and, as you see, has preserved those sacred seals 
unbroken to the present time. I went unwillingly to my 
lord, who was, or seemed, as ignorant as myself in regard 
to the manner or motives of my mother’s sudden disap- 
pearance. He made the consolatory remark, however, 
that she had probably eloped ; and, in reply to the sugm 
gestion from me that, if such were the case, there could 
be no reason for this painful concealment and mystery, 
he said that this was probably arranged to heighten the 
effect ; that women understood these things ; that they 
were the only epicureans ; that they could render the com- 
monest morsel exquisite simply by the manner of taking 
it, and could tickle their palates more with a crab-apple, 
if fancying themselves forced to take it slyly, than with 
the most luscious fruits of the tropics at an open feast. 

I will not say how I resented this language. 

I obtained two weeks’ leave of absence, and, at the 
end of that time, joined my regiment, without having 
discovered ^anything further in relation to my mother. 
We were under marching orders, and sailed almost im^ 
mediately for the East, where a certain feeling of des- 
peration induced me to do things which attracted the 
attention of my superiors, and I rose rapidly in the 
service. I came back to the country of my birth, after 
an absence of five years, and learned that, shortly before 
my arrival. Lord X. had been thrown from his horse, 
while hunting, and broken his neck. 


22 


I/OJV WILL IT END? 


And then it was that I learned more distinctly that, 
legally considered, I was a living miracle, the son of 
nobody. This death, however, did not affect the prop- 
erty which had been placed in trust for my use some years 
previously, and I still found myself independent, as well 
as somewhat distinguished in my profession. I again 
made all the search possible, hoping to learn something 
of my mother. But the field of inquiry was small, so 
quiet and secluded had been her life. I grew restless. At 
length I determined to come to this country, where, I be- 
lieved, nobody would care when, in what place, or by 
what means I came into this world, provided I should 
f^how myself worthy to fill in it an honorable place. In the 
main I was not disappointed. There will be some weak- 
ness, prejudice, and illiberality wherever there are human 
beings. I was well received, treated with kindness and 
sufficient distinction, and, in the course of some months, 
met a lady to whom I was at once especially attracted. 
She was still very young. Beautiful ? You would call her 
so. She was very fair, of medium stature, and moulded 
to the very perfection of shape for ideal womanhood. Her 
eyes were of so deep a blue that you would have sworn 
they were black, had you never particularly studied their 
color. Her hair, very abundant, was what I should call 
golden red, although I suppose I ought to say light au- 
burn. Her features were exquisitely formed and harmo- 
nious; her upper lip short and curved, and her smile 
disclosed white teeth of the most regular and perfect 
fashion. Her hands were small, finely formed, and 
pearly white ; and her feet looked as if they were made 
to tread on flowers, and arched so that they should step 
delicately. Her beauty was of that soft and touching 
kind sometimes seen in women of her complexion, and 
her expression one of such innocence and candor that 


A PLEDGE OF LOVE. 


23 


it seemed impossible for her to entertain suspicion or 
distrust.’’ 

‘‘I need not ask if you fell in love with her,” said 
Allerton. 

‘‘I might have admired her only as we may the divinely 
beautiful,” replied Bulldon, ‘‘had I not perceived in her, 
as I thought, a certain sympathy, almost the evident ex- 
pression of a wish to bring and hold me near her. I 
could not, nor did I attempt to, resist the fascination, I 
should perhaps say inspiration, of these indefinable, sub- 
tle, delicate evidences of her trust, of her yielding to an 
attraction existing in myself. I became deeply enamored 
of her. I told her so, like a man and a soldier. She 
modestly and sweetly responded, as I would have her.” • 

“But I thought you light-eyed fellows could resist ten- 
derness,” broke in Allerton, with a meaning smile. 

“This war was raging fiercely,” went on Bulldon, with- 
out noticing the interruption, “ and I had intended to ask 
thaf my services be accepted by the authorities which you 
serve, but was deterred, alike by my disinclination to 
leave her, and by her dissuasions ; for she made use of all 
her tender influence to keep me from following my plan. 
As I had no personal interest in the war, I was the more 
easily persuaded by her. 

“An unexpected occurrence in my own affairs called 
me away for six months. Her letters were charming, — 
full of sweet wit and assurances of lasting affection. Be- 
sides the more solemn asseverations, she found a thousand 
ingenious forms of expression in which to insinuate her 
entire and eternal love for me, a thousand coquettish 
fancies to tempt me back, and as many earnest prayers 
that I would hasten my return. I needed neither urging 
nor invitation, for I was miserable away from her, and 
burning with impatience to be again at her side. At 


24 


HOW WILL IT END? 


length I had the pleasure of announcing, by letter, my 
immediate departure to rejoin her. No sooner had I ar- 
rived than I sent a message, saying that I should wait 
upon her in the evening; and I went eagerly to keep my 
promise. She was at the country-seat of her family, a 
short distance from the city. I knew that she had received 
my message, and was, consequently, exceedingly disap- 
pointed, not to say dismayed, when I was told that she 
was not at home. Unable to abandon the hope of seeing 
her that night, I said I would call again later, and strolled 
into the grounds, where I found and seated myself in a 
summer-house, which, covered with vines thickly inter- 
laced, was quite dark within. Near by I could hear the 
murmuring of a brook, which ran along the bottom of a 
little dell, whose sides were densely studded with trees and 
evergreen shrubbery. Here I intended to wait for an hour 
or two, and then call again at the mansion, hoping thus to 
see her who was dearer to me than all things, and who, I 
doubted not, was detained away by some unexpected hin- 
derance. Although the night was cold, I was burning with 
fever. I could not be calm ; my breath came and went 
heavily, and my whole frame was shaken by the tumultuous 
beatings of my heart. 

had remained here perhaps an hour, although my 
impatience may have made the time seem much longer 
than it really was, when I heard subdued voices on the 
brink of the dell, and could just see the shapes of two 
persons, — a man and a woman, — close together, slowly 
emerging from among the shrubbery. Dim as was the 
light, and low as were the tones in which the conversation 
was carried on, I could not mistake the form or the voice 
of the woman. It was she for whom I had been waiting. 
They paused before coming to the clearer light in the 
open space, between the edge of the thicket and the sum- 


A' PLEDGE OF LOVE. 


25 


mer-house, remained a few minutes, hand-in-hand, still 
talking earnestly; then they embraced warmly, and the 
man disappeared again among the trees and bushes in the 
darkness. His companion stood looking after him a 
moment, and then hastily passed the summer-house and 
ran lightly towards the mansion. 

‘‘If I had before doubted who she might be, I could 
do so no longer ; for, as she passed, her face and form 
were clearly revealed to my view, and I too well knew 
the wonderful grace of her movements not to be wretch- 
edly certain as to her identity. I do not think I moved 
for an hour. I was completely prostrated. A mortal ill- 
ness seemed to overwhelm me. 

“At length I arose and walked unsteadily away. I 
regained my hotel in the city, wrote a letter to her in the 
course of the night — for I did not sleep, nor even think 
of slumber or rest — containing only these words : 

“ ‘Had I known as much before as I did after calling 
this evening, you would not have been annoyed by the 
expectation of my visit.’ 

“And with this I sent the letters which she had written 
to me, her portrait in miniature, some mementos, every- 
thing, in short, that I had ever received from her. ^ 

“The next morning I went to the headquarters of 
your army and formally offered my services, which were 
accepted. 

“Thus, you see, I am a man whose mother was — a 
woman, and one of the sweetest and dearest, whose sweet- 
heart was — a woman, and one of the loveliest and most 
devoted. 

“And yet he talks lightly of women,” added the 
speaker, after a short pause, and in tones of bitter 
mockery. 


3 


26 


HOPV WILL ir END? 


CHAPTER III. 

A PATRIOT. 

Just as Bulldon had finished his narrative, and before 
Allerton could make any comment, they were joined by 
Miss Marion Devray and the Honorable Pestyfog Clap- 
pergong. These came from the direction of the house, 
and seemed to have been engaged in earnest, if not ex- 
citing, debate; for the lady’s cheek was flushed, and her 
eyes sparkled with even more than their ordinary bril- 
liancy, — sparkled with a kind of indignant, defiant light, 
like fire that has just been stirred, instead of with their 
usual soft radiance, as the friends heard her say, speak- 
ing, in the animation of the moment, louder than she 
intended, — 

You would not dare say that to him.” 

In stature Miss Marion was a little above the medium 
height, exquisitely shaped, surpassingly graceful, and car- 
ried herself superbly, like one born and accustomed to 
receive homage and obedience. She was, apparently, 
about eighteen years of age. Her eyes were large, deep, 
and dark, shaded by long black lashes ; her hair, which, 
from its very luxuriance, escaped partially from its fasten- 
ings and fell upon her shoulders, should, but for the fear 
of ridicule, be called changeable in color, — changeable in 
this, namely, that ordinary lights made it look a very 
deep brown ; but, when the sun shone fully upon it, what 
might be called an invisible golden hue appeared. Her 
neck, brow, and hands, of the most polished fairness, were 
models of beauty ; her cheeks were tinted with the softest 


A PATRIOT. 


27 


shades, and her lips with the deepest colors of carnation. 
Her features and the shape of her head and face were 
classical, belonging, however, rather to the Roman than 
the Grecian classics ; and her whole appearance indicated 
a warm-hearted, earnest, impulsive, perhaps passionate, 
and perhaps, also, imperious nature. 

The Honorable Pest y fog Clappergong — those who knew 
him intimately called him Pest, or Pesty — was a dark- 
complexioned, spare man, with small, very black eyes, a 
hooked nose, thin lips, a smoothly-shaven face, and very 
long straight black hair. .He seemed from thirty-five to 
forty years of age. He rarely laughed or smiled, seldom, 

I if ever, lost his self-possession, not even when apparently 
i excited to the highest degree of anger or enthusiasm. 
And enthusiastic he could be, for a purpose. His chief, 
and almost his only, purpose in life was the advancement 
of himself in the ways of political distinction and on the 
road to fortune. Consequently he had studied and be- 
come so good a master as he might of all the arts of 
dissimulation and the tricks of popular oratory. He 
could speak long, fluently, and often, without saying 
much, and he possessed such copiousness of words that 
the little he had to say could be uttered by him in a hun- 
dred different ways, with such variations of amplification 
and changes of proportion that at each repetition his 
auditors supposed they were listening to something new. 
He aimed to excite the fancy with high-sounding phrases 
and the wildest hyperbole, and declaimed in an earnest, 
often a very loud, voice, and with violent gesticulation. 
His themes were patriotism and national glory, and his 
theories and practice based on the axiom that whatever 
political action might profit his personal interests was both 
patriotic and glorious. He had too just an estimate of a 
popular audience, assembled to hear a political harangue. 


28 


J^OH^ WILL IT END? 


to attempt to convince by logical arguments ; he preferred 
to fire the imagination and feelings by rhetorical repre- 
sentations. Truth was good, when it would serve his turn; 
but, even in this case, he magnified it to the proportions 
of fiction ; and when truth, thus exaggerated, or other- 
wise, would not serve his turn, he liked unmixed false- 
hood better. It is, indeed, very doubtful whether he 
could have argued logically had he wished so to do ; for 
the logical faculty rarely exists in its full strengtiw except 
in combination with an instinctive love of truth. 

‘‘We have been talking about you,’' said Marion to 
Allerton, while a sweet smile stole from her lips up into 
her eyes and softened their brightness. “Did not your 
ears burn ? And which of them ? Colonel Clappergong 
says you ought to be at the front, and I say you ought to 
be here ; that you are not yet sufficiently recovered to 
take the field.” 

“I was just remarking to Miss Devray,” said the Hon- 
orable Mr. Clappergong, “that, at such a time, it was a 
great misfortune that our cause should lose the aid of two 
of its best soldiers.” 

“You said more than that,” put in Marion, quietly. 

“ Perhaps the gentleman will be kind enough to tell us 
all his remark,” observed Allerton, feeling very much as 
if it would be delightful to quarrel with the Honorable 
Pestyfog. Having decided to depart himself, he felt a 
greatly increased animosity to that distinguished person, 
who was to remain behind. 

“So earnest a patriot could say nothing by which we 
might not profit,” suggested Bulldon. 

“I have never hesitated to speak when my words could 
be of use to our oppressed and afflicted country,” said 
the Honorable politician. “The dictates of patriotism 
are above all other considerations ; and I could not help 


A PATRIOT. 


29 


saying to this charming lady that I feared you, gentle- 
men, were rather lukewarm in the cause, that you pro- 
longed your absence from the field unnecessarily, at a 
time when a crisis is evidently approaching, and when 
every soldier should be at his post. Of course these re- 
marks were not intended for your ears, gentlemen, and 
you must take no offense. Feeling, as I do, that life 
itself is nothing when poised against the interests which 
our country has at stake in this war, it is surprising to me, 
to say the least of it, that any should prefer their personal 
comfort to the pleasure of sacrificing on the altar of 
patriotism. It is perhaps possible, though most improba- 
ble, that our enemies may, for a time, push their invasions 
on into the heart, even, of our country. But, in that 
case^ let them find nothing but our dead bodies amid 
smouldering ruins and general desolation. I would that 
my convictions and zeal could be felt by all, for then I 
should find no necessity to fire cold hearts and urge slug- 
gards on to duty !” 

‘^And then,” said Allerton, who had listened to this 
speech without moving a muscle, you would be at 
liberty to go to the field yourself, which you must ardently 
desire. I believe you have not been in the service?” 

^^Oh, yes, he has,” broke in Marion, wickedly; ^^that 
is how he got his colonel’s comimission. He was on the 
staff of the general commanding the reserves, — or form- 
ing the camps of volunteers, — or in the quartermaster’s 
department, — or — how was it, colonel ?’ ’ turning to the 
Honorable Mr. Clappergong. ^‘But when all were or- 
dered to the front he was obliged to resign, or get perma- 
nent leave of absence, or something of the sort, to look 
after the cold hearts and sluggards, and the supplies, for 
which he had contracted. Am I not right. Colonel 
Clappergong ?*’ ’ 

3 * 


30 


HOW WILL IT END? 


the main,” replied the person addressed, coolly 
enough. ‘‘I was obliged, to my great regret, to remain 
behind. The interests of the cause generally demanded 
this sacrifice of me.” 

^‘What a misfortune !” sighed Bulldon. 

I knew it was better for me, by my exertions at home, 
to send a thousand, or even a hundred, men to the field 
than to go myself,” continued the Honorable gentleman. 
‘‘And I knew, too, that those who went to the field would 
soon be useless, unless sustained by those who remained 
behind. The army, that vast engine, which acts 'di- 
rectly against the enemy, must be fed with fuel, as it were, 
supplied with all things necessary to its efficient and 
continued action by those who go not with it. And, 
knowing that I possessed some peculiar advantages for 
the discharge of these duties, while many could as well 
handle a musket, or a regiment, as myself, I gave up my 
preferences, as we must all be ready to do, and stayed 
behind.” 

“What disinterestedness!” murmured Bulldon. 

“And if we fail?” questioned Allerton. 

“We cannot fail,” returned the Honorable Mr. Clap- 
pergong. “ No people like us, engaged in a cause like 
ours, ever failed.” 

“But they are pushing us hard,” said Allerton. 

“Let them push,” responded the Honorable gentle- 
man. “When they shall be able to push the mountains 
to the sea, they may succeed in driving us thither. And, 
if they should, the very waves would reprove and lash us 
back again to victory.” 

“And what would then become of your vocation? 
Where would you be?” asked Allerton. 

“On the sea, of course, fishing, and casting nets, and 
looking for munitions, staying beyond the breakers, and 


A PATRIOT. 


31 

talking/^ answered Marion, plucking a rose and moisten- 
ing her lips with its dew as she pressed it to them. 

would, indeed, dominate even the waves and dra- 
goon them into our service, if it were necessary,” said 
the Honorable Pestyfog. ‘^But that can never be. Our 
enemies have somewhat crushed us at different points of 
contact, it must be admitted. Yet that has been done by 
the mere force of matter, of superior weight. They have 
no skill, no knowledge of strategy, no daring of the higher 
kind, nothing of that spiritual courage which is the soul 
of what we call chivalry.” 

Which you so deeply feel and so spiritedly represent,” 
said Bulldon. 

‘^Our forces are falling back, it is true, but only be- 
cause the game requires such moves. They are made to 
decoy our antagonists on to the fate prepared for them,” 
explained the Honorable gentleman. 

‘^You will, doubtless, be in at the death,” remarked 
Bulldon. 

‘‘I doubt that,” put in Marion. ‘^Colonel Clapper- 
gong will be too far in the rear to come up in time. You 
know his duties keep him in the rear, except in case of a 
retreat. ’ ’ 

The political condition of the state demands con- 
stant, indeed, the greatest attention,” said the Honorable 
Pestyfog. ‘^The military power is so organized that it 
moves like a well-regulated machine. This can never be 
the case with the political forces of a country, which 
require incessant watching and the never-ending labor of 
organization. I feel no anxiety as to the result of the 
armed struggle. There can be no such thing as ultimate 
failure.” 

^‘Let us hope so,” said Bulldon, demurely. 

‘‘A braver people than ours never lived, sir,” continued 


32 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


.the Honorable gentleman, ^‘and an appeal to arms was 
never made in a holier cause. But were it possible that 
our men could, by the effects of a series of reverses, or 
otherwise, all become craven, our women would take up 
their abandoned weapons and chase our invaders to their 
remotest fastnesses, — ay, sir, sweep them into the bottom- 
less gulfs of the sea, as Michael and his angels hurled the 
arch-fiend and his followers from Paradise to the infinite 
abyss. Would they not, miss ?’’ 

Marion did not at once reply to this appeal, for she 
liked not to take sides with, or to seem in any way to echo, 
the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. She felt a hearty con- 
tempt for him, and the especial displeasure which he had 
caused her was not yet appeased. And yet she believed 
that what he said of her countrywomen was, in a degree, 
true, though expressed so grandiloquently and with a great 
deal of exaggeration. Bulldon saved her the trouble of 
answering, by saying, — 

‘^This might well happen, though the men were not 
craven ; might be brought about eyen by their attaining 
to the most excellent degree of patriotism, so that they 
should all be willing, every man of them, to sacrifice their 
preferences, nay, insist even on staying at home to look 
after the munitions and the political organizations and 
the condition of the country.’^ 

have no doubt,’’ said Marion, ^^that the women 
would willingly take up arms in this quarrel rather than 
that our cause should fail. We have the proud conscious- 
ness that by our influence, in a great measure, the ranks 
of our army have, been filled. Even all the eloquence of 
Colonel Clappergong has not been more efficient for this 
purpose than a few earnest words spoken by some of us. 
But we have faith in those who love us,” and her eyes 
met, for an instant, those of Allerton;' ‘‘we know that 


A PATRIOT. 


33 


they are fighting for us more than for themselves, and that 
they will shrink from no duty or danger. And we would 
also have them know that we conjure them not to expose 
themselves rashly or unnecessarily to peril. Aside from 
all other considerations, their lives and their strength are 
too precious in this time of our need to be incautiously 
risked.’^ 

In this I entirely agree with you, miss,’’ said the Hon- 
orable gentleman; ‘‘and I believe you will do me the 
justice ” 

“Oh, we should all be glad to do you that,” inter- 
rupted Bulldon. 

“And I propose to do it,” said Allerton. 

“What?” asked the Honorable Pestyfog. 

“Why, justice, in a small way,” replied Allerton, and 
continued : “ There is a class of men for whom I have the 
greatest contempt and aversion. I mean those who used 
all the arts of rhetoric, all the powers of invention, 
misrepresentation, and slander, to urge on this quarrel till 
war should be inevitable; who, instead of laboring to 
diffuse truth, only disseminated and cherished falsehoods, 
and wrought, like demons, to exaggerate errors and mis- 
understandings between the two parties, instead of proving, 
as they might easily have done, that the most important 
differences rested only on imaginary wrongs, and thus, by 
an honorable use of knowledge, preventing this most un- 
happy conflict ; and who, when hostilities actually began, 
were careful to stay as far from the field as possible, still 
occupied with their devilish work of propagating party 
spirit, diffusing deceptions, firing hearts with the very 
heats of hell, and forcing thus to the front the brave, 
generous, and really patriotic victims of their political 
tricks and ambitious conspiracies. And of that class I 
think you, sir, an able representative and a superior speci- 


34 


HOW WILL IT END? 


men/’ added the speaker, looking the Honorable Mr. 
Clappergong straight in the eye. 

This is not the first time that I have felt compelled to 
sacrifice' my inclinations for the good of my country,” 
said the Honorable gentleman. 

^^We all know that,” put in Marion, quietly pulling 
the leaves off a vine. What inclination do you sacrifice 
now, colonel?” 

‘‘I would not sacrifice it,” observed Bulldon. 

Luckily, I can be master of myself when great in- 
terests might be adversely affected by yielding to a natural 
impulse,” said the Honorable Pestyfog. ^‘Otherwise I 
should chastise you, sir, as you deserve,” looking fiercely 
at Allerton, for it is evident that you wish to insult me.” 

Do not put too much force upon yourself, I beg,” said 
Allerton. 

‘^It might injure you, which would be worse for the 
cause than to chastise my friend,” remarked Bulldon ; ‘Hor 
then who would look after the political condition of 
affairs, the munitions, and the zeal of men for the front?” 

‘‘I seek no quarrel with you, sir,” retorted the Honor- 
able gentleman. 

Never did with anybody, I fancy,” rejoined Bulldon, 
calmly. 

Marion began to look more serious and a little scared ; 
was ready, in fact, to use her influence to prevent an im- 
pending collision. But her fears were groundless, although 
the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong was really getting 
very angry ; the more so that she had seemed rather to 
enjoy what he considered a direct attack upon himself. 
Yet it was not his choice to meet such an attack frankly. 
He subdued or dissembled such wrath as he felt, and said, 
somewhat stiffly, — 

see we cannot agree, gentlemen / but it is not neces- 


PERSONS AND PLOTS. 


35 


sary for us to quarrel. It is well known that the purest pa- 
triots are seldom appreciated in their day and generation, 
and I cannot hope to be more fortunate than others, who 
have suffered from all sorts of suspicion and misrepresenta- 
tion. Time will probably show which of us are really what 
we seem, and which of us would pass ourselves off for that 
which we are not.” 

As he uttered the last sentence, the Honorable gentle- 
man glanced furtively and malignantly at the tw6 friends. 
Then he turned and walked away in the direction of the 
mansion. The officers looked at each other significantly, 
as if they would say, He suspects us.” 

He will never forgive you,” said Marion to Allerton, 
when the Honorable Pestyfog had disappeared. 

So much the worse for him,” replied Allerton. An 
unforgiving man must be very unhappy. ’ ’ 

Then they talked a little while together, and appointed 
definitely the hour for their evening ride. And then 
Marion returned to the house. Allerton accompanied 
her thither, lingered a short time on the piazza, and then 
came back to Bulldon. 


CHAPTER IV. 

PERSONS AND PLOTS. 

General Devray, Marion^ s father, was with his troops 
in the field, occupying the positions nearest the enemy, 
and fighting, when occasion offered, like an honest gen- 
tleman and partisan. For his judgment dictated, and his 
conscience fully approved, his action. He sincerely be- 
lieved the cause that he had espoused, and in which his 


36 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


friends and neighbors were engaged, to be just in the sight 
of Heaven. Unlike many others, he had counted the cost. 
He had, as he thought, fully estimated the evils of a civil 
war, and had devoted all his powers to the contest, with 
a disposition, at the same time, to mitigate, so far as pos- 
sible, its horrors. 

It would not be true to say that he did not hesitate be- 
fore entering on this course. Yet his was not the hesita- 
tion of selfishness, or of one who doubted of his duty ; it 
was rather that of one who would, if it might be, have the 
cup pass from him and from his people, — from all, in fact, 
both friends and foes, who must otherwise taste its bitter- 
ness. But when he perceived that this could not be, — 
when he saw that an appeal to the sword had been made 
in a long-standing dispute, and that he must range him- 
self distinctly and finally upon one side or the other, — 
he passed one night in prayers and tears, and in the 
morning his hesitation was at an end. He girded on 
his sword with a calm, serious face; but with no show of 
despondency. 

Whether he was, in fact, right or wrong might be a 
question for others ; he certainly was honest and sincere, 
and he had no doubts. He went to the field. in the spirit 
of a maYtyr, or of a crusader. 

But, though esteemed a true gentleman by all who 
knew him, a model man in all the relations of life, he 
had his faults. Yet these were of the nobler kind. His 
was no petty pride, but strong and masculine, too hard 
and too stern. The respect which he entertained for his 
family name amounted almost to religion, and had the 
defects too often associated with religious feeling ; that is, 
this sentiment, with him, seemed to border on fanaticism, 
was sometimes bigoted, frequently uncharitable, and gen- 
erally unforgiving to those who sinned against this object 


PERSONS AND PLOTS, 


37 

of his worship, if so strong a term might be used to indi- 
cate that which was only venerated, not adored. 

When the war broke out, he was possessed of large 
wealth. This he unhesitatingly risked on the result of the 
contest, devoting large sums at once to the use of his 
party. But Marion’s fortune, left by her mother, he had 
caused to be placed securely in foreign investments ; for 
he felt that he could not stake his daughter’s future 
welfare on the chances in which he had ventured his own, 
without being recreant to his double duty as father and 
trustee. He had been for some years a widower, and 
Miss Mabie Holdon, a poor and distant relative, had, since 
the death of his wife, dwelt with him, and, as well as she 
could, taken the place of the former mistress of the house- 
hold. Gentle and kind, she yet had peculiarities of char- 
acter and disposition not rarely found in persons of her age, 
sex, and condition. She was still unmarried, although she 
had some time ago come to years of discretion. Her face 
could not be called beautiful, nor her form voluptuous, 
but she had very small feet, which were seldom quite 
invisible, and very white, well-shaped hands, which she 
seemed constantly to caress. She talked much of intel- 
lect, while she affected not to be clever herself. To judge 
by what she said, her taste in literature must have been 
esteemed liberal ; for she praised everything of which she 
heard praises. She talked of her favorite authors, not un- 
frequently naming some of them, and once said that she 
liked very much the Waverley novels, but had never read 
any of Scott’s works. Her conversation was such as an 
enthusiastic person, not yet wearied with vain repetitions, 
might use. She greatly admired talent for speaking and 
writing — or, rather, those who wrote and spoke — for the 
public. Consequently the Honorable Mr. Clappergong 
was deeply reverenced by her, for she thought him 

4 


38 


HOW WILL IT END? 


eloquent, a statesman, and a man of genius ; and it was 
by her influence and management that this Honorable 
gentleman had been for some time received intimately 
at the hospitable mansion of General Devray. 

Miss Mabie frequently praised the merits of Miss 
Marion, but regretted that she was not more intellectual. 
And when extolling this young lady, whom she alone had 
discovered to be deficient in the higher intellectual quali- 
ties, and unfit to be the wife of a man of genius,^’ a 
kind of intense softness would creep into her eyes and 
quiver alon^ the tones of her voice; and this softness 
reached its most fascinating degree as, by an easy transi- 
tion, she would change the subject to a eulogy of the 
Honorable gentleman himself, expressing constant aston- 
ishment that he was not married, saying that it must be 
of his own choice that he was not, — that he ought to have 
such and such a wife, describing minutely the person he 
should select. It was interesting to notice, at these times, 
how much her ideal wife resembled her own visible, tan- 
gible, and audible self. 

The Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong was not a person 
who would lose an opportunity, or waste an advantage, 
willingly ; and he believed both existed in the evident 
disposition of Miss Mabie Holdon towards himself. There- 
fore, for some time, he had paid such ostensible court to 
this lady as to convince her that she was the dearest object 
of his affections, and to make her feel that she might now 
throw aside the veil with which she had affected to con- 
ceal, while liberally displaying, her tender admiration for 
him. In this way he secured a strong footing in the house- 
hold, an open approach to Marion, and, at the same time, 
a blind affection on the part of Miss Mabie, which might 
perhaps be made to serve his selfish purposes. He suc- 
ceeded, to some extent, at least, in appeasing the jealousy 


PERSONS AND PLOTS. 


39 


which his apparent devotion to Marion caused, by repre- 
senting that, in this way, remark would be turned from 
themselves, and they left more at liberty. Besides, he as- 
serted that ordinary politeness demanded of him a certain 
show of attention to the young hostess. 

It was no secret to the Honorable gentleman that 
Marion’s fortune was large, and had been placed be- 
yond the chances of a partisan war ; and he designed 
by. perseverance, or otherwise, to obtain that young 
lady’s consent, and, by marriage with her, insure his 
own future against the accidents of violent and vindictive 
political dissensions. In such a position and with such 
purposes was he at the house of General Devray when 
the events recounted in the first part of this story took 
place. 

Another person had also, for a few days, been a lodger 
with this family; namely. Captain Trangolar, an officer 
of engineers, who now, by invitation, had taken up his 
residence in the house, while superintending the con- 
struction of some defensive works in the neighborhood. 
He was a small, near-sighted man, so much absorbed in 
scientific studies, and particularly in the science of math- 
ematics as applied to hostile purposes, that he rarely 
thought of the war as it actually existed, with all its ter- 
rible concomitants, as of something in which he was di- 
rectly engaged. He felt and reasoned as coolly about the 
effects of such and such positions of armies and fortifica- 
tions as he would have done of those occupied by the 
pieces in a game of chess, and without any more thought 
as to fatal results. Had the command of an army been 
intrusted to him, he would have refrained from making 
an attack until he could demonstrate, mathematically, 
that he ought to win a victory; and had the attack, thus 
carefully calculated, failed, he would have been utterly 


40 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


surprised and confounded by such an evidence of the 
falsity of mathematical demonstrations. 

After leaving Marion and the two friends in the garden, 
the Honorable Mr. Clappergong did not return to the 
mansion, although he made as if he were going to do so. 
Reasons all his own caused him fo turn aside and take a 
path obscured by a hedge of roses. In this he came back, 
unseen, near to the spot where Allerton, having rejoined 
Bulldon, was now engaged with his friend in earnest con- 
versation. Hidden by the shrubbery, the Honorable 
gentleman found that he could, unperceived, hear all that 
was said by the two officers, who, believing themselves 
again quite alone, were talking, in a low tone, to be sure, 
but much more distinctly than was prudent. 

‘‘It is plain that, if we would escape, it must be at once. 
Without doubt he suspects us ; and now the desire to 
achieve a cowardly revenge will incite him to keener 
action. I am convinced that he is as unscrupulous as he 
is mean,’^ said Allerton. 

There need be no delay,’’ replied Bulldon. 

You feel perfectly sure of our humble friend?” asked 
the colonel. 

Certain of him. He is as true as steel,” answered 
the captain. 

“ Let us, then, immediately decide upon the course we 
are to pursue,” urged Allerton. 

have already arranged a plan with our friend,” re- 
sponded Bulldon. 

State it, please.” 

He is to wait for us some miles from here, at the edge 
of the wood, just by the big oak, where we were the other 
day, whenever I shall give him the signal. Thence he 
will guide us to a covert in the forest, where some of his 
fellows will be waiting with such provisions as may serve 


PERSONS AND PLOTS. 


41 


our necessities. They will undertake, by secret ways, to 
lead us beyond the lines. He knows his men, and says 
we can rely upon them implicitly.’^ 

All very good ; but let me suggest a change. I am 
to ride with Miss Devray at five o’clock, as you know. 
Do you, therefore, wait with him, at the place you have 
named, for me at seven o’clock, and I will join you at 
that hour, or as soon after as possible. We shall then be 
able to get well into the wood before it is very dark.” 

‘‘Yes; but mind what I said, and do not let the girl 
delay you ’ ’ 

“ Never fear ” 

At this moment Captain Trangolar, who had been hard 
at work all the morning in his room, Joined the two 
friends. He was on his way to the fortifications, to ob- 
serve what progress had been made and give any necessary 
directions, and had stopped to exchange a few friendly 
words with the officers. 

No sooner had the captain of engineers arrived than 
the Honorable Mr. Clappergong left his hiding-place 
quietly and gained the house unobserved. He went di- 
rectly to Allerton’s chamber, where were that gentleman’s 
riding-boots, which had been brightly polished by the 
servant Cass, and drew his foot, to which some of the soft 
soil of the garden still adhered, over them, so as to cover 
them with dirt. Then he sought at once Miss Mabie 
Holdon. That lady was in a demonstrative fit of the pouts ; 
for she knew that he had enjoyed a long interview with 
Marion alone that very morning, and more than suspected 
that he had ardently made love to her. He came smilingly 
into the room, and seemed not to perceive that a storm was 
brewing. When, however, he could no longer ignore the 
indignant mood of Miss Holdon, he affected surprise and 
pain at it ; was deeply wounded by it ; reproached her 

4 * 


42 


HOPV WILL IT END? 


tenderly for it ; caressed her gently and respectfully, and 
wheedled the cloud from her brow with assurances of un- 
swerving fidelity in thought as well as in deed. Then he 
asked her to help him do something, — to play a trick on 
Trangolar, just to see the perplexity of the man of science, 
and how he would fret and storm ; and, when he had cajoled 
a consent from the tender-hearted spinster, he instructed 
her as to the part she was to play ; which was, to enter that 
officer’s room — which the captain had left carefully locked, 
as was his habit, the better to keep his work from the eyes 
of others, but of which, like all good housekeepers in simi- 
lar circumstances, she possessed a duplicate key — and take 
from his table all the drawings she could find and bring 
them to him. . He would hide them for awhile, just to 
tease Trangolar, he was so particular. She was also to 
bring him some coarse thread, some wax, and a large 
needle. 

All this she did with alacrity, happy to do anything for 
so great and good a man, and flattered to be engaged with 
him in any act. Then he summoned Cass, and scolded 
him for not having polished the colonel’s boots, reproach- 
ing him for being so negligent of a guest, and ordered 
him to fetch them at once and clean them. Cass said that 
he had brushed the boots early in the morning, as usual ; 
but the Honorable gentleman told him to hold his tongue 
and do as he was bid. The Honorable Pestyfog Clapper- 
gong was so well established in the house that the servants 
obeyed him as if he had been the master ; and Cass went 
to bring the boots. As he was returning with them, the 
Honorable Pestyfog ordered him to leaveThe boots there 
and run at once to do an errand, pretending that it was a 
matter of great importance, which he had forgotten. And 
Cass did as he was commanded. 

When the servant had disappeared, the Honorable Mr. 


MAJV AND HORSE, 


43 


Clappergong took one of the boots, ripped the stitches 
by which the lining was fastened at the top of the leg, 
inserted between the lining and the outside leather those 
of the drawings, brought from Trangolar’s room, which 
were on thin paper, and which comprised a nearly com- 
plete plan of the fortifications that the engineer had in 
charge, ^d then, in a manner not likely to attract atten- 
tion, replaced the stitches as well as he could, by means 
of the needle, thread, and wax which Miss Holdon had 
brought him. Those of the drawings not thus used he 
caused to be taken back and left on Trangolar’s table by 
his amiable assistant. 

When Cass returned, he found the boots where he had 
left them, polished them, as he had already done in the 
morning, and replaced them in Allerton’s chamber. 


CHAPTER V. 

MAN AND HORSE, 

^^Are you going to ride this evening?’^ asked the 
Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong, carelessly, of Allerton, 
as they met at lunch. 

‘^Such is my intention,” replied the colonel. 

^^Pray take my horse, then,” said the Honorable gen- 
tleman, blandly. I shall esteem it a favor if you will 
ride him. He needs exercise, as I have not had him out 
for some time.” 

‘H have noticed that you did not mount him,” ob- 
served Bulldon, softly. 


44 


WILL IT END? 


^^No. The truth is, I have not had time to do so,’* 
said the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. 

This statement was not true, however. The Honor- 
able gentleman would have spoken truly had he said that 
he was afraid to mount the animal, which he had pur- 
chased not a long time before, had once ridden, and, in 
a contest with the brute, had come off second best, con- 
sidering himself lucky indeed that he was able to come 
off the field at all. But he said nothing of this, and it 
was not known to any of the company present. 

The horse was, or appeared to be, naturally vicious, 
and had never been thoroughly mastered. His owpier 
would have sold him, but an opportunity had not pre- 
sented itself. His purpose was to induce Allerton to ride 
this savage beast, believing that he would be so unman- 
ageable as to injure or disgrace the colonel, and com- 
pletely thwart his plan of escape, or, at any rate, retard 
his movements enough to make his capture easy. 

Allertoii’s suspicions were at once aroused by the offer ; 
but he could not well decline it, since he had, a few days 
before, expressed a wish to mount the steed, which was, 
in appearance, a magnificent charger. Besides, he did 
not wish to sharpen the Honorable Mr. Clappergong’s 
suspicions by any show of distrust ; and so he thanked 
the owner, and said he would ride the horse with pleasure. 

After lunch Bulldon withdrew, and did not again return 
to the drawing-room, whither the company had gone to 
hear some music, which Marion had consented to give 
them. She had an exquisite voice, and not only sang finely, 
but also accompanied herself skillfully on the harp. Her 
singing was a great relief to Allerton, unfitted for con- 
versation as he was by the preoccupation of his mind 
and the contending emotions which made a tumult in his 
breast ; although, with his knowledge of the events about 


MAJV AND HORSE. 


45 


to take place, he could hardly resist its softening and sad- 
dening influence. More than once his eyes became dim 
with rising tears as he listened to her thrilling utterance 
of the tender words of some song to which the circum- 
stances in which he was placed gave a deep and painful 
significance. 

At length it was time to prepare for the ride. Cass was 
summoned and ordered to saddle the horses. He mani- 
fested evident surprise, not unmixed with alarm, when told 
to bring the Honorable Pestyfog’s horse for Allerton, and 
tried, unperceived by the others, to make signs to the 
colonel, who either did not, or purposely appeared not 
to, see them. Cass was the friend on whom Allerton and 
Bulldon relied to aid them in making their escape. He 
was a Nubian, of the darkest African hue, with a serious, 
sad face, an intelligent eye, and well-developed, muscular 
form. He was always respectful and submissive in his 
demeanor; yet in his submissiveness there was ever a 
certain dignity. 

When the horses were led up, the Honorable Mr. Clap- 
pergong noticed with displeasure that Cass had put on 
his horse a powerful bridle, well fitted for use in subjecting 
a savage animal, and had brought a heavy riding-whip, 
which his master had sometimes used. The Honorable 
gentleman could not refrain from cursing the servant, 
saying that the horse would not bear either that bridle or 
the whip ; but Cass had the courage to reply that the horse 
was a hard one to manage, and for that reason he had 
thought it best to equip him in such a way as to give his 
rider all the advantage possible. The honest fellow did 
not express his meaning in just this language, to be sure, 
for he spoke like one of his class. Allerton^ divining at 
once his faithful friend’s purpose, interfered, remarking 
that he was satisfied with the equipments, and should in- 


46 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


sist on mounting the horse as he was. Perceiving from 
the colonel’s quiet and decisive manner that further objec- 
tion or expostulation would be useless, the Honorable 
Pestyfog dissembled his vexation. Marion was already in 
her seat, and Allerton leaped into his saddle without diffi- 
culty. Waving a salute to the Honorable gentleman, the 
lovers rode away, giving him the additional annoyance of 
seeing Bucephalus behave with laudable propriety. He 
found, howeverj much consolation in the thought that 
his horse was as treacherous as himself, and would soon 
justify his owner’s confidence in his vicious propensities. 

As soon as the riders were out of sight, the Honorable 
Mr. Clappergong called for a horse, and spurred him at 
full speed to the neighboring encampment, to demand a 
troop, by the aid of which he would perform a very impor- 
tant service. Immediately after his disappearance, Cass set 
out for the rendezvous where he was to meet the two offi- 
cers. Bulldoa was already on his way thither, having, while 
Marion was singing, contrived to leave the house unper- 
ceived, carrying, besides their pistols, a rifle for himself 
and one for Allerton. He had found them in the house, 
which was plentifully supplied with arms. 

Any stranger who might have seen Marion and her 
cavalier, as they rode away from the mansion, and for 
some little time afterwards, would have thought her horse 
the more fiery and dangerous of the two. Although per- 
fectly trained, he was spirited and restless ; not a little 
proud, too, of his rider, who managed him with consum- 
mate ease, grace, and fearlessness, and not a little exhil- 
arated, as it seemed, by the honor of carrying her. The 
charger which Allerton rode moved at a slow pace, — for 
the riders were satisfied to saunter, at first, — and with such 
gentleness and docility as would have thrown an inexpe- 
rienced horseman off his guard. 


MAN AND HORSE. 


47 


After they had gone in this way for, perhaps, half a 
mile, Marion proposed to ride faster, and Allerton touched 
his horse’s flanks softly; but, instead of quickening his 
pace, the beast planted his feet and stood stock-still, try- 
ing, at the same time, to take the bit in his teeth and put 
down his head. The bridle was too hard for hini, how- 
ever, thanks to the foresight of Cass. Allerton applied 
his spurs with vigor, producing no other effect than to 
make the animal perform a series of the most trying demi- 
volts. His rider then sought to soothe him with hand 
and voice, but without success. Perceiving that the con- 
test was to be one for the mastery, the colonel examined 
more carefully the whip which Cass had brought him. 
The thong, not very long or large, was weighty, and con- 
cealed by a silver whistle at the end of the handle was a 
heavy charge of lead. Gathering the bridle still more 
firmly in his hand, Allerton brought the whip down upon 
the brute’s shoulder with all the strength of his right arm, 
and, at the same time, drove home his spurs. With a 
snort the horse sprang rearing in the air, and attempted 
to run ; but the curb was pressed fiercely against his jaw, 
and he was forced to yield. He went back now to his 
demivolts, plunging, and, from time to time, trying to 
rear. But, as often as he began to rise, Allerton 
frustrated tlie movement by suddenly drawing the ani- 
mal’s head on one side, and at the same time using 
his spurs vigorously, thus causing the horse to lose his 
balance. The beast- fairly groaned with rage and pain ; 
his ears were laid back so as to be scarcely visible; 
his mouth was open and foaming, his nostrils distended, 
and his eyes glaring savagely. He made vain efforts to 
seize his rider’s leg in his teeth. Allerton saw that he 
could be tamed neither by persuasion nor ordinary pun- 
ishment. He turned the whip, grasped it at a convenient 


48 


WILL IT END? 


distance from the loaded end, and waited for the next 
attempt to rear. The forefeet of the horse had just left 
the ground when the heavy butt of the whip-handle fell 
like a thunderbolt, striking him fairly between the ears. 
He went down on his knees with his nose in the dust, 
stunned and helpless. For a moment he made no effort 
to rise; then, regaining his feet, with his neck still droop- 
ing, he drew a long breath, and shook his head slowly, as 
if a doubt had entered his mind. Presently, seeming to 
collect himself, he again laid back his ears and started to 
run. Making no attempt to check him, the colonel 
brought the whip smartly across his flanks and urged him 
forward with voice and heel. The horse swept along the 
road like a tornado, hardly appearing to touch the ground 
in his wild leaps. After awhile, as his rider yet sternly 
hurried him on, he seemed to suspect that he was getting 
the worst of the game, and showed an inclination to 
slacken his pace ; but still whip and spur implacably 
urged him on. Seeing, at length, however, that the ani- 
mal was really distressed, Allerton drew rein and ordered 
him to stop. He obeyed the command promptly. His 
breast and shoulders were covered with flakes of foam, and 
perspiration ran from his flanks and dropped from his 
belly like a shower. Turning his horse’s head, the colonel 
rode back to meet Marion, who had followed him, but 
not at so swift or wild a pace as his own. Indeed, Buceph- 
alus had demonstrated that he possessed the qualities of a 
successful racer, — great speed and power of endurance. 
Not satisfied with ready obedience, Allerton put the horse 
through his paces, as he approached Marion, with relent- 
less hand and heel. Bucephalus had found and humbly 
acknowledged his master. 

Marion did not compliment Allerton. She was too 
proud of, and for, him. Besides, he had done nothing 


LOVE AND POLITICS, 


49 


more than she expected of her lover. But there was some- 
thing in her glowing, smiling face and brilliant eyes 
which seemed to say, knew it;’^ a look of generous 
triumph. A poet would perhaps say, if he dared, that 
the light of love’s bonfires was in her eyes, and that 
ruddy flags for victory were thrown out upon her cheeks. 
Near where they were was a mossy bank, and Allerton 
proposed that they should dismount and let their over- 
heated horses, particularly his own, breathe a little. But 
to give rest to the animals was not his only object. He 
had to tell Marion that he must leave her ; and it seemed 
to him that the pain of the announcement would be soft- 
ened if he could make it while sitting by her side and 
holding her hand in his own. 


CHAPTER VI. 

LOVE AND POLITICS — HORSE AND HORSE FLIGHT AND 

PURSUIT. 

There, on the mossy bank, with her head on his shoul- 
der, his arm around her, and her hand in his, had Aller- 
ton, in a low and tender voice, told Marion that the time 
for their separation had come ; that he must go again to 
the battle-field. She listened silently. The look of tri- 
umph, which she had felt for him, all died out of her 
sweet face, the bright light out of her soft eyes. She 
pressed his hand, and her head rested more heavily upon 
his shoulder. 

‘‘Have you nothing to say, my darling?” asked he, 
pressing his lips to her forehead. 

“What can I say?” replied she, in a troubled voice. 

5 


50 


HOW WILL IT END i 


I know that you must go, and that it would be wrong 
if I should try to detain you longer.” 

But you told Colonel Clappergong that I was not 
yet sufficiently recovered to go,” said Allerton, smiling. 

Yes,” returned she, ‘‘because I would not allow him 
to believe that I could think you deficient, or derelict, in 
any respect.” 

“And you have thought me so, then?” 

“I will not say that. I thought it just possible that 
you might not feel so much ardor as I, and that perhaps 
— I say perhaps — you liked to stay here with me — ah, 
don’t, now! But I had faith in you, as I always shall have, 
and believed that you had good reasons for your delay.” 

“ Then you have wanted me to go away?” 

“Oh, that, as you say it, is unkind. I have wanted 
you to go back to the army as soon as you could properly 
do so ; because I loved you, and because I loved the 
cause for which you are fighting. I loved you too well 
to feel willing that you should stay behind the foremost 
of our defenders. I will not do you, nor myself, the 
wrong to suppose it necessary for me to say that parting 
from you is the greatest sorrow I ever had. But it would 
be a greater to believe that you would remain absent from 
the post of duty one moment longer than, in your best 
judgment, were necessary. I thought I had made sacrifices 
before ; but they were all as nothing when compared with 
giving you up; sending you, as it were, to encounter all 
the dangers ” 

Here the brave girl’s voice trembled so that she sud- 
denly stopped speaking, and hid her face on Allerton ’s 
breast. He bent his head and kissed her bright hair, 
saying, in a soothing voice, “ There I there 1” as a mother 
might try to comfort her sorrowing child. 

Then they sat for some minutes in silence. They could 


ZOVjS and politics. 


51 


not trust themselves to speak. Besides the pain of this 
parting, Allerton had other and heavy griefs, as yet un- 
known to Marion. Meanwhile the horses bit at the grass, 
and at the tender branches of trees and shrubs, which 
were within their reach. 

At length Marion looked up, trying to smile, and 
blushing through tears. Taking a tiny pair of scissors 
from a small case which she drew from her pocket, she 
put up her little hands and cut off a lock of Allerton’s 
hair, the tears gaining the mastery, and driving the smile 
entirely from her face, as she folded the dear remem- 
brancer and placed it in her bosom. The young officer 
looked at her for a moment, his own eyes suffused, then 
clasped her to his heart in an agony of love, sorrow, and 
self-reproach. How could he ever find courage to unde- 
ceive this loving child? How justify himself to this 
patriotic and high-spirited woman ? How dare, not only 
to repel the love, but invite the detestation, of this adored 
sweetheart ? 

Gently disengaging herself, Marion placed a small book, 
her own little Bible, in which was a lock of her hair, in 
Allerton’s hands, saying, Wear this on your heart. It 
may save your life here and hereafter.” 

He kissed the book reverently and put it in his bosom. 

Let us ride,” said he, for he knew what he had to do, 
and time was pressing. He placed Marion on her horse, 
then mounted Bucephalus, applied his spurs, and made the 
steed show his paces, which he did with .ready obedience. 
Then they sauntered along side by side in the solitary 
road. 

^‘Tell me, sweetheart,” said Allerton, ^'when did you 
first love me?” 

^‘When I first saw you come to the house, pale and 
suffering. And I was very angry with your friend Bull- 


52 


I/OW' WILL IT END? 


don because he would allow no one to come near you 
but himself when you were most ill. He said you were 
delirious, and that it was better so.’^ 

‘‘Doubtless he was right,’’ suggested Allerton, who 
knew very well the excellent reasons which induced Bull- 
don, by great self-sacrifice, to prevent the approach of 
any person, to whom the insane ravings of the sick man 
might have betrayed them. 

“Had you seen me in my madness,” he continued, 
“ you might have known me better, and never loved me.” 

“ I do not think so,” said she. “ I would have charmed 
away the delirium and soothed you to repose.” 

“As holy beings and holy things frighten away the 
devil,” said he. “Yes, my angel, you are good enough 
for that.” 

Then they rode a little way in silence, and their horses 
walked side by side. ' The hands of the lovers were 
clasped in each other, and only their eyes spoke. 

Presently Allerton said, — 

“ Did I ever tell you the story of a friend of mine, who 
met and loved a lady somewhat as I met and loved you, 
only he was unfortunate and unhappy, while I am fortu- 
nate and — blessed?” And he pressed his lips to the small 
hand which he held in his own. 

“ No. Tell it me, please,” said Marion. 

“ My friend was severely wounded and taken prisoner 
in one of the battles gained by the enemy. With others 
captured in the same fight, — among whom was one of his 
intimate friends, a brother officer, also wounded, but not 
so severely as himself, — he was sent under guard towards 
the interior. But on the way his wound was so much 
aggravated by exposure and fatigue that the escort was 
forced to leave him, and his friend to care for him, 
in charge of a non-commissioned officer and two men. 


LOVE AND POLITICS, 


53 


This officer was a kind-hearted fellow, and passed much 
of his time with the prisoners, whose society beguiled 
the wearisomeness of his duty. They sounded him, 
and found that he was insensible neither to the claims 
of humanity nor the charms of a bribe. In short, 
he agreed to aid them in effecting their escape. The 
better to accomplish this, he obtained, on some pretext, 
two uniforms, and arms, such as were worn by officers of 
their rank in the army to which he belonged. Then, on 
a given night, while one of the men, whose appetite for 
strong drink they well knew, was on duty as sentry, one 
of the prisoners, watching his opportunity, called this sen- 
tinel, and, thanking him for the courtesy which had been 
shown to the captives, presented him with a bottle of 
brandy. In a short time the man was helplessly drunk. 
Then the prisoners went to the quarter of the officer, who, 
of course, made no resistance, and bound him strongly, 
tying a handkerchief over his mouth, in such a way that 
it should not seriously incommode him, and could be 
displaced without difficulty. They then fell upon the 
other soldier, who was sound asleep, and gagged and tied 
him securely. They had already put on the uniforms 
and taken the arms provided for them, and at once left the 
place. They wandered a great part of the night, till the 
exhaustion of the more severely wounded officer compelled 
them to halt, and seek such repose as could be found be- 
neath the protection of some trees, which grew near 
together. In the morning they discovered a laborer's 
cottage not far off, at which they asked for food, and, 
while partaking of a simple breakfast, learned from the 
good people in the house where they were, and also that 
there had been a skirmish in the neighborhood the pre- 
vious day. On this information they based their plan. 
Before the war my friend had been somewhat familiar 

5 * 


54 


HOW WILL IT END? 


with that part of the country, and also with the names of 
the prominent inhabitants. They determined to go ta 
the country-house of a distinguished gentleman, who was 
known to be absent, and represent themselves as officers, 
who, having been on detached duty for some time, were 
returning to their respective commands when they, unex- 
pectedly, fell in with a small body of their own forces, 
and were wounded in a skirmish with a reconnoitering- 
party of the enemy. 

^^It required some ingenuity, and much coolness and 
self-possession, to carry this plan safely into operation ; 
but they succeeded. My friend was worn out with excite- 
ment, fatigue, and suffering when they reached the hos- 
pitable dwelling where they proposed to remain till strong 
enough to effect their escape across the lines, and where 
they felt sure of a kindly welcome and every needful at- 
tention, should their story be believed. And they argued, 
correctly enough, that its hardihood would make it appear 
credible. In this they were not disappointed. Those of 
the gentleman’s family who were at home received the 
wounded officers and treated them with every care and 
kindness, never for a moment doubting the truth of their 
representations. But the strain on my poor friend’s 
strength had been too great. He was attacked by, and 
lay for days in the power of, a violent fever. When con- 
valescent, he began to perceive that he was the object of 
unremitting kindness and delicate, sympathizing attention 
from the loveliest being he had ever seen. She was the 
daughter of the gentleman whose mansion they had so 
boldly invaded. This was like our meeting : was it not, 
dearest?” 

Oh, do not stop. Keep quiet, please, and tell me the 
rest. Did he fall in love with her, and she with him?” 

‘‘Just as we did, darling. And they swore always to 


LOVE AND POLITICS, 


55 

love each other, and that nothing should, or could, put an 
end to their affection.” 

Just like us, too.” • 

Yes. But at length my friend, thanks to her dear 
care and tenderness, was well again, and felt that he must 
go back to his frieiids and his duty. His companion had 
already been made impatient by their delay. He was 
miserable at the thought of leaving her, and yet could 
not, even for her sake, be false to the cause which he had 
sworn to support, and in which both his heart and his 
honor were engaged.” 

What did he do?” 

‘‘They formed a plan to escape to their lines and rejoin 
their friends ; and when they were all ready to leave, and 
the day had arrived for their departure, he told her the 
whole truth and asked her to go with him. Now, what 
did she do ?” 

“Was married to and came with him, of course. What 
else could she do? They are clearly in the wrong, and she 
could not do better than to leave them and come to us.” 

Allerton’s heart bounded as he heard this reply. 

“But,” said he, “she believed as confidently in the 
justness of their cause as we do in that of ours. ’ ^ 

“That makes no difference. If she loved him truly, 
she should have come with him. Or, if she could not do 
that, they might have arranged it in some way, so that 
she should join him as his wife before long. It is so cruel 
to be separated ! ’ ’ 

Allerton looked at his companion with inexpressible 
tenderness and devotion ; but he did not speak. He 
feared to go on, lest he might, with one word, destroy the 
blissful hope which filled his heart. 

“Well,” said Marion, “you do not tell me. What 
did she do?” 


56 


irow WILL IT END! 


do not know/^ said Allerton. 

You do not know?’^ repeated Marion. 

^^No. But you shall tell me. Oh, Marion, exclaimed 
he, passionately, ‘^forgive me ! I never thought to de- 
ceive you " 

‘‘Deceive me 1” echoed she, looking bewildered. 

“Yes, deceive you, Marion.’^ 

“What do you rnean?’^ she asked, turning pale. 

“The story that I have told is of myself. I do not 
belong to your party. I ’ ’ 

“And you have dared this imposition?’^ said she, draw- 
ing herself up, while her eyes flashed with anger and 
indignation. She looked superb, almost terrible, — quite 
terrible to poor Allerton. 

“And you, sir, a skulking spy, have presumed to make 
me the dupe of your tricks, of your falsehoods. You 
have well represented your fellows, — ^but you shall not 
rejoin them, — no, sir, not even if a woman must capture 
you ! Away !” she cried, quivering with anger, as Aller- 
ton reached out his hand as if to take her own, and, turn- 
ing her horse’s head, she gave him, in her excitement, a 
violent blow with her riding-whip. He was a thorough- 
bred, high-spirited creature, that would not bear the lash^ 
The moment he felt the whip, he gave a wild bound, par- 
tially unseating his mistress, and made off at a furious 
pace in the direction from which they had come. In vain 
efforts to regain her seat, Marion completely lost control 
of him ; for he had now become frightened by the un- 
usual position and action of his rider, all of whose 
strength only sufficed to keep her from being thrown by 
the terrific leaps of the flying horse. Allerton was 
coming on behind her with the speed of the wind, for, 
the instant that he perceived the true state of the case, 
he had started in full chase. He was greatly alarmed. 


HORSE AND HORSE. 


57 


but determined to rescue her from impending death, 
should Bucephalus not again rebel. The horses were 
nearly equal in ' speed, and Marion’s had the start, too 
much the start. But Allerton’s was the stronger. Marion 
uttered no cry, no sound. Bucephalus seemed to un- 
derstand the affair. At any rate, he needed no urging. 
With his head stretched forward and his belly to the 
ground, he appeared almost to fly. But the space be- 
tween the horses did not seem to diminish. For some 
distance it was as if the racers were evenly matched. A 
sickening feeling of impotence and desperation was creep- 
ing over Allerton. He used whip and spur without mercy, 
almost without thought. Yes, he is beginning to gain in 
the pursuit. Marion’s horse is now but a short way ahead. 
But he runs well. They are nearing a sharp turn in the 
road. Allerton is only a few yards behind. Marion’s 
horse springs abruptly round the turn ; she is thrown over 
upon his right side, but yet clings desperately with both 
hands. Still no sound escapes her lips. It is evident 
that she cannot retain her hold a minute longer. Buceph- 
alus is doing wonders ; but he must do a little more. 
Again fresh blood answers to the pressure of the spur. 
With a groan the horse seems to gather up his strength 
for the last desperate struggle, and lengthens his fearful 
leaps. His head laps the right flank of the fugitive. 
Another and another hard pressure of the heel; a few 
more desperate leaps, and his head is by that of the brave 
girl. Once more, good horse, once more; and Allerton’s 
arm is about the waist of the woman, — a giant’s strength 
swells that left arm. 

‘‘Free your foot from the stirrup,” says he, as, for an 
instant, the horses are madly running side by side. Aller- 
ton rises in his stirrups, and that worthy left arm bears 
Marion, fainting, to his saddle-bow. He checked his 


58 


HOW WILL 77 ’ END? 


horse’s speed, caressed and soothed him with his voice, 
and brought him to a standstill, loath enough to give up 
the race just in the moment of victory. 

Casting his eyes around to see if any help were near, 
Allerton perceived five or six horsemen riding towards 
him at full speed from the direction of General Devray’s 
mansion. They were yet some way off, but he could see 
that all wore uniforms except one, and that one, he felt 
sure, was the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. He doubted 
not for an instant that he and Bulldon were pursued. 
Dismounting at once, he laid the insensible girl tenderly 
down on the soft grass by the roadside, remounted his 
horse, and, looking again at the approaching troop, who 
were near enough to observe his movements, put spurs to 
Bucephalus, whose powers of endurance now stood him 
well in stead. 

Away sped the hapless lover, now a fugitive. He could 
not help distinguishing, in the midst of all the tumult of 
his emotions, a feeling of admiration, mingled with a kind 
of tenderness, for the brave beast which he bestrode, that 
had so nobly vindicated his title to respect, notwith- 
standing the outrageous conduct by which he resisted 
oppression and subjugation and strove to preserve his 
independence. The good fellow was again sweeping the 
highway, encouraged by the hand and voice of his rider ; 
this time towards the rendezvous. Before passing the turn 
in the road, Allerton looked back and saw that the horse- 
men were spurring hard after him. On reaching a rising 
ground, some distance beyond, he again turned his head, 
and saw, what he had calculated upon, that they had come 
to a halt at the place where he had left Marion ; that the 
Honorable Mr. Clappergong and one of the soldiers had 
dismounted and bent over the prostrate form for a moment, 
and then that the four men who had not left their sad- 


FLIGHT AND PURSUIT. 


59 


dies rode on once more in hot pursuit. Yet the space 
between the fugitive and his followers had been increased 
by their delay, and his horse, in spite of the exertions that 
he had already made, was greatly superior to those which 
they rode. He was confident, therefore, of gaining the 
rendezvous in safety. But, as it happened, the large oak- 
tree, where he was to meet his friends, stood some way 
from the edge of the wood. Bulldon and Cass were wait- 
ing for him there, for it was already past the hour ap- 
pointed for their meeting, and he could now see them 
looking, with apparent anxiety, at him and his pursuers, 
who were again in sight. His allies were making to him 
signs of fear or encouragement. Looking back, he saw, to 
his dismay, that the party from whom he was fleeing were 
no longer following him straight forward, but had turned 
their course, with the evident intention of coming between 
the oak and the wood, and thus cutting off the retreat of 
those whom they were seeking to catch. He might, prob- 
ably, save himself by taking the course which they thus in- 
dicated, and running right for the forest ; but he could not 
harbor for a moment the thought of forsaking his friends. 
He only urged his horse a little more impatiently towards 
the tree. Turning his head once more to look at his 
enemies, he heard the sudden crack of a rifle, and saw the 
foremost man of them throw up his arms and fall backward 
from his horse. In a moment after another report was 
heard, and the next fastest horse engaged in the chase ran 
riderless. Bulldon had made good use of General Devray’s 
rifles. The two remaining troopers, excited by the hunt 
and the fall of their comrades, pressed courageously for- 
ward, and seemed likely to gain their point, by putting 
themselves between the tree and the edge of the forest, 
and at the same time winning the cover of the wood, when 
again a rifle made its sharp, clear discharge, and one of the 


6o 


HOW WILL IT END? 


soldiers fell prone on his horse^s neck and then tumbled 
heavily to the ground. His fellow, thereupon, suddenly 
reined up his steed, turned, and fled from the field. 

^‘Idid not want to hurt those faithful hounds,” said 
Bulldon, as Allerton dismounted from his reeking charger, 
^‘but there was no help for it.” 

The masterless horses were easily caught. Their late 
riders were found to be dead, when examined by the friends 
with the humane purpose of giving them such aid as might 
be practicable. Their arms were taken from them and 
divided among the conquerors, or rather among the con- 
queror and his friends ; for Bulldon alone achieved the 
victory. He then mounted one of the captured horses, 
and Cass another. Cass also undertook to lead the third, 
saying that they might yet find a use for him. Allerton 
was determined not to part with his trusty Bucephalus if 
he could help it. And, thus mounted and equipped, they 
took their way into the forest, and disappeared just as the 
last twilight was fading out of the sky. 


CHAPTER VII. 

REGRET. 

When the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong, with the 
troop in chase of the two officers, reached the spot where 
Allerton had left Miss Devray, he was surprised and 
alarmed by her appearance. She was deathly pale and 
still insensible. He at once alighted, and, asking one of 
the men to stay and help him, began to apply such restora- 
tives as he could think of and command. He chafed her 
hands and her temples, and applied to them the broad 


REGRET. 


6i 


leaves of a shrub that grew near by, which were already 
moist with the falling dew. Presently she began to show 
signs of returning animation ; but it was yet some minutes 
before she recovered from the swoon into which she had 
fallen. Allerton and those of his pursuers who had con- 
tinued their course were already out of sight and hearing. 
When consciousness returned, Marion exclaimed, wildly, — 

‘‘Where is he? where is he? Is he safe?” The 
Honorable Pestyfog turned a little wan and compressed 
his thin lips unconsciously as he heard this passionate 
outcry. 

“Of whom do you speak?” asked he, coldly. 

“Tell me, is he safe?” returned she, imperiously. 

“He will be soon, I trust,” said the Honorable gentle 
man, with a chilling, though almost imperceptible, sneer 

“What do you mean?” demanded she, anxiously, 
frightened by the Honorable Pestyfog’ s manner; a man- 
ner rather to be felt than seen. 

“ He cannot escape,” replied the Honorable Mr. Clap- 
pergong. 

“ Escape ! From what ?” asked she, still more alarmed* 

“From his pursuers,” answered he. 

“Who is pursuing him? What for? What Has he 
done?” She was now very much excited by apprehen- 
sions of evil. 

“He has accomplished nothing, I am confident; only 
tried,” responded the patriot. 

“ Tell me what you mean. For Heaven’s sake, explain 
yourself!” said she. 

“I mean that ‘the colonel,’ ” emphasizing the appella- 
tion, “ is a traitor and a spy ” 

“It is false 1” cried Marion, interrupting him, while a 
flush of indignation drove all the lingering paleneis from 
her face. 


6 


62 


HOW WILL IT END? 


And is now seeking to escape to the enemy with such 
knowledge of our situation and movements as he has been 
able to obtain/’ continued the Honorable gentleman, 
coolly. 

I tell you it is false, sir !” retorted she, — a suspicion 
and accusation which could only come from one base 
enough to be guilty himself of the acts alleged. Please, 
sir, to bring me my horse,” added she, with forced calm- 
ness, to the trooper. 

The animal, after running some way, had stopped, 
turned back to, and was now standing near, his mistress, 
with drooping head and smoking flanks. The man did 
as requested. The Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong 
came forward to help Marion into the saddle. She seemed 
not to notice him, but said to the man, — 

‘Hf you will now be kind enough to help me up. 
Thank you.” 

The Honorable Mr. Clappergong mounted also, and 
moved to take his place by her side. The soldier fell 
back. She turned, however, and again said to him, — 

I must beg you to accompany me.” The man rode 
up and took his post upon one side of her, while the 
Honorable Pestyfog CHppergong, gnawing his Jips with 
spite and vexation, held his position on the other. Thus 
they rode, in silence, to General Devray’s mansion. 

The Honorable Mr. Clappergong had never seen 
Marion so strikingly beautiful. She was pale ; and the 
trouble which she felt, in spite of all her efforts to con- 
ceal it, gave an unusually tender and sad expression to her 
countenance. Her eyes looked larger even than was their 
wont j the pupils were dilated, and an extraordinary light 
burned softly in their dark depths. Her delicate nostril 
was tremulous with emotion ; and she held her bridle and 
whip with a kind of convulsive grasp. Her luxuriant 


FOREST AND NIGHT. 


63 


hair was partially disheveled, and waved gracefully on 
her neck and shoulders. She looked right before her, 
without, apparently, regarding anything. 

Arrived at the mansion, she went straightway to her 
room, and sank into a seat, moaning, rather than exclaim- 
ing,— 

‘^Oh, what have I done? what have I done?” 

She ordered Cass to be summoned. He was nowhere 
to be found. 

But you must find him and bring him to me at once,” 
said she, sternly, to the servant. 

As the man left the room, she fell upon her knees, and, 
bowing her head upon the cushions of a sofa before her, 
cried out, in a plaintive, broken voice, — 

^^What shall I do? Oh, what shall I doi^^ 


CHAPTER VIII. 

FOREST AND NIGHT — MOURNING — THE HUNT. 

For some length the wood, into which Allerton and 
his companions had gone, was easily pierced. The trees 
were tall and rather sparse, and the lower part of their 
trunks free from branches. But soon the forest became 
more dense. Rank wild vines twined from tree to tree, 
and, with a thick undergrowth of bushes, very much hin- 
dered and at times almost stayed the course of the fugi- 
tives. Cass, however, who led the way, pushed on reso- 
lutely, bowing himself upon his horse’s neck, or clinging 
on his sides, to avoid the boughs and hanging vines. 
The little remaining light was shut out by the foliage ; and 


64 


HOJV WILL IT END? 


the officers were obliged to trust wholly to the skill and 
fidelity of their guide and the instincts of their horses. 
After awhile they came to a shallow rivulet, into which 
they urged their steeds, and followed Cass up the stream, 
where the water rarely came above their horses^ knees. 
This turn not only secured them a more open way, but 
effectually hid their track from pursuers, should the at- 
tempt to follow and take them be renewed. 

While the horses, with heads stretched forward, were 
snorting, and scenting their way, bearing their riders 
towards a place of safety, a curious scene was going on in 
another part of the forest. There a circular space, some 
yards in diameter, had been cleared of underbrush, which, 
piled up at the circumference, formed a kind of hedge. 
A couple of torches, stuck in the ground on either side 
of this space, gave a fitful but sufficiently bright light. A 
party of men, poorly clad, but with grotesque effect, whose 
faces were as black as that of the night itself, were grouped 
together in the place thus cleared and lighted. They 
were captives, held in bondage by the laws of the country 
where these things came to pass. Some were leaning 
against the neighboring trees, some seated on the ground, 
and some lying at full length, supporting their heads upon 
a prop made by resting the elbow of one- arm on the 
earth, while the hand served for a pillow. One of the 
number was addressing the others. 

Breddern,” said he, we mus’ tink Tore we do. Some 
folks tinks after dey do, an’ den dey tinks berry bad ; an’ 
all dere bad tinkin’ don’t den do no good. We’s all come 
here ter tink an’ ter talk. We’s all breddern ; an’ we 
don’t know wat ter do. So we come here ter ’cuss it. 
Some says we ought ter go ’way to de enemy, — dat de 
enemy is our frien’s. Some tinks dat we ought ter kill 
;ur massas an’ our missuses, an’ some b’leve we ought ter 


FOREST AND NIGHT 


65 


do needer, but jes’ work as if der wasn^t de earthquake, 
an’ de storm, an’ de tunder all ’bout us a shakin’, an’ a 
blowin’, an’ a knockin’ all tings inter jes’ one ting. Well, 
dat’s what I tink. Wat for we be here in dis Ian’ ? ’Cause 
de good Lor’ want us ter be here. Now, if you boys 
’sposes dat de biggest mule- team you ever seed could drag 
us ’way from whar we be if de good Lor’ didn’t mean we 
should come, den you’s mighty green, dat’s all. Bar’s 
Pete, jes’ he go an’ hitch up his big team ter dat yar oak- 
tree, an’ he couldn’t move him. ’Cause wy? • ’Cause de 
good Lor’ mean dat dat yar tree mus’ grow dar an’ hab 
leabes dar, an’ hab acorns dar, an’ nowhar else; dat’s 
wy. Now, wat de good Lor’ mean is jes’ right ; dar ain’t 
no doubt ’bout dat, an’ it’s no use ’cussin’ it. An’ if de 
good Lor’ mean dat we stay here an’ work, jes’ as we 
allers hab, we mus’ do dat. An’ if He mean dat we ought 
ter go ter de enemy, den de enemy come an’ fetch us. 
But de enemy don’t come an’ fetch us. He sometime sen’ 
bad boys back dat runs ’way ter him. Well, wat for he 
do dat ? ’ Cause de good Lor’ mean we ought ter stay 

here. An’ if de enemy be our frien’s, wat for he sen’ us 
back? ’Cause he don’t want us ter do dat wat de good 
Lor’ don’t mean. An’ wat for de enemy he make us work, 
as dey say, if he be our frien’ ? ’Cause he ain’t our frien’ ; 
dat’s wy. No, breddern, jes’ we stay whar we is, an’ do 
de work dat we mus’, an’ let de good Lor’ hab his own 
way. Dat’s wat I tink.” 

The group, which had listened attentively to this 
speech, remained silent at its close. After a pause of a 
few minutes, another of the company stepped forward to 
reply. 

‘‘ Dis yere Bill,” said he, want us all ter b’leve dat he 
know wat de good Lor’ mean. How he know dat? Wat 
good Lor’ do he talk ’bout? Dis yere Bill can’t read. 

6 * 


66 


HOJV WILL IT END? 


Now, breddern, de Book tell us ’bout de real good Lor’. 
An’ wat do de Book say ? ^ By de ribber ob Babbleum 

dar sot we down. We weep wen we remember Zium.’ 
Dat’s wat de Book say. Now, who make de Book say dat? 
Wy, de prophet ob de good Lor’ ; he make him say dat. 
Well, who be de prophet? Wy, he be de man dat tell 
wat’s gwine ter be; de man dat, wen he was dumped 
inter de coal-kiln, wouldn’t burn ; de man dat was trowed 
inter de den ob lions, an’ was ser tough dat de lions 
couldn’t eat him; de man dat cried so, ’cause de people 
was bad, dat big ribbers, as big as de biggest ribber you 
ebber seed, run out ob his eyes an’ washed ’way an’ 
drownded ebbery durned one ob um. Now, wen de 
prophet talk ’bout de ribber ob Babbleum, wat he mean? 
Wy, he mean dis yere little ribber jes’ ober dar. ’Cause 
why? ’Cause de little ribber ober dar make a noise ; an’ 
dat’s wy he call him Babbleum. An’ who he mean wen 
he say we: Mar sot we down’? Wy, he mean us, ob 
course; we boys. Don’t we sot down by dat ribber wen- 
ebber we can git dar? An’ don’t we weep wen we remem- 
bers Zium ? Ob course we does. Wat be Zium ? Wy, 
Zium, he be de whip. Dat’s clar. Don’t he say dat 
ebbery time? Z — ium. Dat’s wat he say. Dere’s dat 
yar Sam ober dar; he know. He git him yesterday. 
Now, wat else do de Book say ? He say, if dy right han’ 
hurt yer, cut him off an’ trow him ’way ; an’ if dy right 
eye hurt yer, pull him out an’ trow him ’way. An’ dat 
mean we. Wen de Book say dat, he talk ter us. Now, is 
not de massa our right han’ ? An’ de missus, ain’t she our 
right eye? An’ don’t dey hurt us? Den wat mus’ we do? 
Wy, cut him off, an’ trow him ’way; an’ pull her out, an’‘ 
trow her ’way. But ’spose we can’t do dat, wat we do 
den? Wy, we jes’ cut ourselbes, an’ trow ourselbes ’way 
ter de enemy; dat’s all. An’ dat’s wat I tink, breddern.” 


MOURNING. 


67 


Dat^s it ! dat’s it exclaimed several, as all the mem- 
bers of the group seemed to change their positions, and 
fell to talking with one another. 

But, breddern,” presently said Cicero, the orator who 
had last spoken, *^Mt’s time for de rites ter begin. It’s 
time ter sot down by de ribber an’ weep. Take up de 
mournin’. De breddern will sing my hymn, an’ brudder 
Julius will start de tune. All you boys jes’ come ober 
here, an’ sot down on dis side, by de ribber.” 

In obedience to Cicero’s directions, the men ranged 
themselves on the side of the circle nearest the rivulet. 

This is the tune and these the words which they sang : 



n 



-i , , 




(iP |fi * 

. pr — j 

-aJ— p P-t. A 




1 bhJ 


By de rib-ber, ho - hi ; By de rib-ber, ho- 




, 






r - 

n* r 



n 1 1^ 

r r ^ 



k- 

k- V- ^ 

— k_ 


- [ — 



hi; By de rib-ber, By de rib-ber, By de rib - ber ob 



— 




— ~ 




... p m ^ 



“fir 




j Of 


-W — 


■ - k 

J kJ — 

1 — L-J 



Bab - -- -- -- - ble-um, ho - hi; 


« 


— 


^ 


1 





> 









in 


1 


cJ r P 



~~rD 

^ 1 




L U-^ 



t=l 


Dar sot we down, ho - hi ; Dar sot we 



68 


//OIF WILL /T END? 




-<s>- 


W 


^ /Cs 


ipip: 










22: 


wen we re-mem-bers Zi-um, hi 




fj 


hi, 


ho - hi'; 


u. 




IMS 












tt 






An’ de fad-der, an’ de mud-der, By de ole palm 




^---l an p: 






1 ^ 42 : 






tree, Wait-in’ for us, look-in’ for us; Ter come back from de 






-J- 


t2=t2= 




n: 




sea ; An’ de brud-der, an’ de sis-ter, Bring-in’ fruit for de 


~ . | g — 










9j 


i 


meal. Wait-in’ for us, look-in’ for us, Ber-ry sor-ry dey all 

. 




•g 1 ^ ’ T -j^ 








feel. But de look-in’ an’ de wait-in’ An’ de stand-in’ on the 


r0 _„ , |,_ 



^ • 1 ® . 

-ir T ! 

W^~P- ■■■■■■ f~ 

~3 "3 "3“ 


i2-^= 

-K ^ ^ 


shore. All’s for nuf-fin, we’s not com -in’, We’s not 



-f=-f=w=w- 






Z2: 


e.y 


com - in’ neb - ber 


more. 


neb 


ber - more. 



MOURNING, 


69 


While singing the first part of this song, or chant, or 
lamentation, as it shall please those who hear to name it, 
the men were seated on the ground. Their faces were 
made to wear a sad and dejected look, and with a slow, 
swaying movement of their bodies they marked the rhythm 
of the music. But when they had begun to sing the 
second part, their leader arose and commenced a strange, 
wild dance, all the others following him, one by one, 
around the edge of the little arena. This dance, in- 
tended to express the greatest sorrow, was rather a 
movement of the whole body, than of any part or mem- 
ber of it. The motions were comparatively slow, but 
exaggerated, and consisted chiefly of a long step with the 
left foot, accompanied with the plunging of the body and 
arms somewhat to the left ; then a similar movement with 
the right foot and body towards the right ; then, with the 
next^ forward step of the left foot, the shoulders and head 
were thrown far back, and the arms flung towards heaven 
leftward ; and then a like movement with the right foot 
and whole body towards the right, the dancers continuing 
to sing all the time. When they came to the repetition 
of the word ^^nebbermore,” their forward movement 
ended, and a series of postures, made by the body while 
the feet remained still, and which were nearly the same 
as those used in the dance, a different posture being taken 
with each utterance of the word, closed this part of the 
performance. 

As the last note of the lamentation died away, a long- 
drawn and peculiar whistle was heard, with startling clear- 
ness, from down the stream which flowed near by, and 
Cicero suddenly left his companions, directing his steps 
toward the spot whence the sound came, and disappeared 
in the dark forest. Going a little way, guided by the 
whistling, which was repeated at short intervals, he met 


70 


HOW WILL IT END? 


Cass, who, somewhat in advance of his charge, had come 
to a halt. 

‘‘Who dar?” demanded Cicero, in a low voice. 

“ Me, Cass, and de oders,’’ replied the party questioned, 
and then asked, “Is’t all right, brudder Cicero?” 

“ Yah, it’s all right, ’cept dat yar Bill’s dar. But, den, 
he won’t do nuffin’, ’cause he’ll tink dat if dey oughtn’t 
ter go back, de good Lor’ ’ll stop um. ’Sides, we’s ’nuf 
ter take car ob him.” 

“ Den I commit dese yere gemmen ter yer, an’ de 
Lor’ ’ll hold yer’ spons’ble fur eb’ry hair ob dere heads.” 
Then, turning to Allerton and his comrade, Cass con- 
tinued : “ Dis yere’s Cicero, a good Men’. He know 
great deal, an’ lead you gemmen all right. Good-by, 
Massa Colonel, good-by, Massa Cap’n ; hopes yer’ 11 get 
safe troo.” And then, after receiving the warm thanks 
of the two friends, and a liberal fee for his services, which 
he was unwilling to accept, but which was forced upon 
him, Cass handed over the led horse and the arms which 
he carried to Cicero, and took his way homeward, to ac- 
count for his absence, if need should be, by saying that 
he had been at a love-feast, — a religious festival of the 
Methodists, which he had a general permission to attend. 

Cicero led the officers to the place where he had left 
his fellows. There they alighted and ate a bountiful 
supper, provided by their new guide and his assistants. 

After resting a short time, and supplying themselves 
with such provisions as they could conveniently carry, they 
again set forward, under the lead of Cicero, who, bidding 
those whom he had lately addressed good-by, said to Bill, 
his antagonist in the discussion, — 

“ If I nebber comes back, brudder Bill, dat’ll be ’cause 
de good Lor’ want me ter be on t’oderside.” 

And, with those so solemnly placed under his care by 


THE HUNT 


71 

Cass, he went into the obscurity' of the night and of the 
forest. 

Presently they struck a bridle-path, and thereafter pro- 
ceeded with greater convenience and dispatch. But, with 
all the haste that could be made, they did not reach the 
limit of this wood, on the side nearest the hostile lines, 
till the light of early dawn was sufficient to render objects 
clearly visible. 

Between this and another wood, farther on and still 
nearer the lines, in which the fugitives intended to con- 
ceal themselves during the coming day, was an open tract 
of country some two or three miles in breadth. About 
midway this open land was a hut, where, the officers were 
assured by Cicero, they could safely rest themselves and 
their horses. As no person was in sight, they decided to 
go at once to the hovel. They had ridden nearly half 
the length between the forest which they quitted and the 
cabin when Cicero, who was in advance, turned his head 
to say something to the officers, and suddenly cried out, — 
Oh, look, massa ! — look 1 look 

The gentlemen saw, in the direction indicated by their 
guide, a body of horse deploying from the border of the 
wood behind them, in which it had evidently lain in wait, 
and taking a position such as effectually to prevent their 
return to the shelter which they had just left. 

‘‘We must gain the other wood,” said Allerton; and, 
putting spurs to their horses, they rode swiftly a short dis- 
tance that way, when they perceived another troop drawn 
up and waiting just at the edge of the trees before them. No 
sooner was the new danger discovered than they drew rein. 

“Let us to the hut and defend ourselves as well as we 
can,” said Bulldon; and they rode quickly towards this 
covert. They had arrived within a short space of the 
cabin when Allerton saw, through an opening which. 


72 


J/OIV WILL IT END? 


without sash or glass, served as a window, the skulking 
form of one of the enemy^s soldiers. 

Halt !” he cried. ^^They are hidden in that place too ! 
Nothing is left us but to run for it.’^ 

They turned their horses’ heads and set off in a course 
at right angles to that which they had been pursuing. Be- 
fore they had gone a dozen yards on this new track, eight 
or ten men rushed from the hovel, leveled their muskets, 
and fired a volley at the fugitives. With a sharp cry 
Cicero sprang up in his stirrups and fell heavily to the 
ground. Bulldon clasped his hands to his head and slid 
an unresisting mass from the saddle. Bucephalus, which, 
though jaded, still bore Allerton bravely, reared for the 
last time, struck out wildly with his forefeet, and sunk, 
in a quivering heap, lifeless, with a bullet through his 
brain. Allerton disengaged himself and ran to Bulldon, 
who was lying motionless, but yet alive. The only wound 
visible was upon the side of his head, where a ball had 
struck and grazed, perhaps pierced, the skull. Cicero was 
bleeding fast from a hole in his breast. But it did not 
trouble him. The good Lord had, indeed, wanted him 
^'on de Oder side.” He had crossed the invisible lines, 
beyond which there is no recapture. The poor fellow had 
acted faithfully, according to the best knowledge he 
owned. Unfortunately for him, and those whom he had 
undertaken to guide to a place of safety, he did not know 
that the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong had overheard 
and knew the plan and course which Allerton and Bull- 
don intended to follow ; and that he had taken care, when 
he went for assistance to make the direct pursuit, to have 
a force sent forward, and posted so as to intercept the 
fugitives when they should emerge from the forest, in 
case his own party should fail to take them before they 
could gain the cover of the wood. 


SISTERS OF CHARITY, 


73 


Allerton seemed to give no further thought to his ad- 
versaries. Escape was, indeed, impossible, and further 
effort plainly futile. He busied himself with vain essays 
to restore consciousness to Bulldon, until his pursuers 
came up. They at once arrested him, and began to search 
his person. To this indignity he submitted without re- 
monstrance. His boots were taken off, even his stockings. 
Nothing was found, however, till a soldier picked up the 
boots for a second examination. Something about the 
leg attracted his attention ; he felt it, took out his knife, 
ripped away the lining, and pulled out the drawings which 
had been deposited there by the Honorable Mr. Clapper- 
gong. Allerton was confounded. His enemies next 
searched Bulldon, then placed him, still unconscious, on 
a stretcher hastily prepared for the occasion, and set out 
to conduct him and Allerton to the nearest post. 


CHAPTER IX. 

SISTERS OF CHARITY — WOUNDED. 

The same day on which Allerton and Bulldon left Gen- 
eral Devray’s house with the design of escaping to their 
friends, two women, clad in the peculiar garb of a reli- 
gious order whose members devote their lives to acts of 
charity, made their appearance at the headquarters of the 
military department in which the events recounted in the 
preceding chapters took place, bearing letters of safe-con- 
duct from the commander-in-chief of the enemy’s forces; 
by which they were, also, particularly recommended to 
the kind attention of any officer of the opposite party to 

7 


74 


JIOJV WILL IT END? 


whom they might present themselves. It was stated, in 
these letters, that the Sisters Mary and Marguerite desired 
to serve as nurses, especially at those hospitals and camps 
in which prisoners of war were confined ; and the writer 
asked that their wishes might be granted, so far as should 
be consistent with the regulations established by the civil 
and military powers to whom the letters were addressed. 

Before being permitted to come within the lines, the 
women had been subjected to a rigid, but courteous, ex- 
amination, to make sure that they were not spies, and that 
they came for no purpose of war or politics ; a proceeding 
rendered necessary and proper by the fact that all kinds 
of expedients were known to have been devised by both 
parties to obtain information of the plans, movements, 
and numbers of their antagonists. 

The women^s mien was very much in their favor and 
well calculated to hinder suspicion. The elder. Sister 
Mary, was, seemingly, about forty-five years of age. Her 
eyes were large and dark, but not black, and a sad yet 
mild and placid expression never, or rarely, left them. 
Her features were regular, and her face had that pure and 
spiritual look which so often distinguishes Sisters of Char- 
ity. Her hair, almost entirely concealed by the head- 
dress uniformly worn by her order, had been of a rich 
brown color, but was now thickly sprinkled with gray. 
Her voice, very soft and gentle, seemed to vibrate, 
almost insensibly, it is true, to the impulses of a con- 
stant, but hidden, though not wholly-mastered sorrow. 

Sister Marguerite was much younger than her com- 
panion. She looked to be not more than eighteen or 
nineteen years old, and was very fair. On her face, too, 
were marks of grief, as well as of anxiety and weariness, 
which added to the interest that her appearance could 
not fail at all times to excite. 


SISTERS OF CHARITY. 


IS 


They were conducted to the neighboring hospital, in 
which many sick and wounded prisoners were cared for, 
and left free to practice their pious avocation. They also 
obtained permission to pass from place to place without 
let or hinderance, for which they seemed very grateful. 
Waiting not to rest or refresh themselves in any way, 
they at once began to make the rounds of the infirmary, 
saying a kind word of sympathy and encouragement here, 
asking a friendly question there, adjusting the pillows of 
one sufferer, fanning or bathing the fevered brow of 
another, and giving drink to a third. Those who ob- 
served them closely noticed a kind of nervous eagerness, 
particularly in the elder, as they approached each cot, 
which would give place to a marble-like calmness and the 
look of those who have learned to endure, without show 
of repining, even the wasting pains of hope deferred. 

When they had made the entire circuit of the hospital, 
the younger said significantly to the other, — 

‘‘Not here. 

“ Perhaps he has been discharged. We must look at 
the reports.’^ 

But after carefully examining the lists of patients that 
were or had been in the place, — 

“No,’^ said the elder, “he has not been here, unless 
under an assumed name.’^ 

They seated themselves apart, and for some time talked 
in a low tone. At length the younger, with a look of 
animation, said, — 

“ Trig will help us ; let us find him.^’ 

“But do you know where to look for him?’’ asked 
Sister Mary. 

“Perfectly; and if I did not, we should have but to 
ask. I will act as chief ; you need only follow me, and 
we will succeed,” replied Sister Marguerite. 


76 


HOW WILL IT END? 


This plan was discussed, and, at length, proved to be 
the very one which Sister Mary would prefer. In a short 
time they had left that place, and were on their way in 
search of ‘‘Trig.’^ For a part of the road they took 
advantage of the public conveyance, which carried them 
within a short day^s journey, on foot, of their immediate 
destination. They resolved to continue their course so 
long as the day, which was now near its close, should 
last, and walked forward with good courage, occasionally 
stopping to assure themselves that they were in the right 
way, or to ask which of two ways they should take. 
Sister Mary had become unusually silent, — seemed, in 
fact, hardly to observe outward things, so much was she 
looking into herself, or so absent was she in spirit. In- 
deed, both were too weary to converse. 

The sun was already going down with a great glory of 
clouds about him, making the western heavens look almost 
as if the gates of Paradise had been thrown open that he 
might enter there for the night. Robins and some other 
happy birds were singing their evening hymns in a not 
far-off copse, and the nightingales beginning their lament. 
Amphibious dwellers by the shore of a neighboring pond 
were piping a melancholy chorus ; the herbage was reso- 
nant with the songs of crickets and other chirruping 
insects, and the outcries and swoop of the nighthawk 
began to be heard. 

The wayfarers stopped to gaze at the celestial scene. 
And, as they looked silently, tears stole from Sister Mary’s 
eyes, and coursed softly down her pale cheeks. 

When the sun had entirely disappeared, falling on 
her knees by the roadside, and lifting up a little cru- 
cifix, she repeated, in a voice scarcely audible, an even- 
ing prayer to the Virgin. Her tones seemed rather the 
utterings of a spirit which, through its very earnestness. 


SISTERS OF CHARITY. 


77 


had found voice, than the natural articulations of ma- 
terial organs. Sister Marguerite followed the example 
of her companion and kneeled ; but her prayer was made 
without sound. 

They arose and went on, looking now for some suita- 
ble hostelry, or other place, where they might find rest 
and shelter for the night. No habitation could they 
see, nor did they perceive any till they had walked yet 
some distance. Night was fast closing around them, and 
even the little stars had taken their places, when the 
travelers reached a small but neat cottage, situated at the 
end of a short avenue of oaks, which led to it from the 
high-road. A solitary light was burning near one of the 
windows. The tired wayfarers went up to the door and 
knocked. A female servant, accompanied by a child 
some six or eight years old, answered the summons, and 
stared wondering at the strangers. 

‘‘We are two harmless women, my good friend,” said 
Sister Mary, ‘ ‘ who are belated and seek shelter for the 
night.” 

“ Who is there ?” asked a faint voice from within. But 
the little one had retreated to the room whence the voice 
came, exclaiming, — 

“ Oh, sister, here are two strange ladies !” 

“Bid them come in,” said the voice, and the comers 
followed the servant into the house. A young woman 
was lying upon a sofa, which had been turned into a cot. 
The unknown guests were struck by the paleness of her 
thin face, and its contrast with her large and unnaturally 
brilliant black eyes, and her raven hair, which fell down 
and rested its luxuriant length upon the floor. 

“ I fear we intrude,” said Sister Mary, gently. “We 
are on a journey, and ventured to ask here a resting-place 
for ^e night. ’ ’ 

7 * 


78 


HOW WILL IT END? 


You are welcome/’ replied the invalid, for such she 
plainly was. am so glad you have come.” And she 
held out one of her pale, small hands. I have thought 
of you so often.” 

. What she meant was that her thoughts had dwelt much 
upon the venerable sisterhood to which the travelers be- 
longed, as indicated by their dress. She had, indeed, 
often fancied, of late, that it would be very sweet to flee 
away from the ills of the world into some of the refuges 
provided by the church. 

You are suffering,” said Sister Mary, drawing a chair 
and seating herself beside the cot. Sister Marguerite also 
sat near by. The servant and the child had left the room. 

Have you been long ill ?” 

Not as I am now,” replied the sick girl, who had been 
addressed by the servant as Miss Clementine. 

^^But you are not alone here? You have some one 
with you besides the servant and child whom we saw?” 
asked the kind sister. 

^^No,” answered Clementine, we have a man-servant; 
but he has gone to do an errand. He will be back soon. 
Is it very late ?” 

Not yet. Can we do nothing for you?” 

Thank you, no, — that is, if you will only stay with 
me. I am so lonely since — since they came. Before I 
was wounded I could go out, and then the days and 
nights were not so long. But now I cannot do that any 
more.” 

^‘Wounded! How wounded, and where, my poor 
child?” 

Here, in my side, — no, do not touch it, please. I will 
tell you all about it. Shall I ?’ ’ 

Certainly, if it does not tire you. But is your wound 
well dressed ?” 


WOUNDED. 


79 


‘‘Yes. The doctor says I must not disturb it till he 
comes again. Will you give me some of that drink, 
please?” 

Sister Mary did as requested, and the sufferer drank 
with feverish eagerness. 

“You see,” said Clementine, “my father and brother 
went away to the war. My mother and I were satisfied, 
because we thought it right for them to do so. After 
awhile news came that my father was killed. Then we 
began to feel that war is a dreadful thing. Still, we were 
assured that justice was on our side, and this helped us 
to bear our trouble. We stayed at home, hoping for 
success and peace, and bearing up against disaster as well 
as we could. A few days ago, the enemy broke through 
the lines and made a raid in this neighborhood. A force 
of cavalry was sent to oppose them,, but was driven back, 
and retreated, skirmishing, by our house. Carbines were 
freely used, and as they came near us, my mother, seeing 
my little brother, who had gone into the yard to look at 
the soldiers, and was exposed to the shots, ran out to 
bring him in, when a random ball struck her, and she fell. 
I rushed out to help the child, who was shrieking with 
terror and tugging at her skirts, to drag her into a place 
of safety, when I too was struck and fell beside my dead 
mother.” 

“ Dead !” cried both the strangers in a breath. 

“Yes. She was dead. She never spoke to me again. 
The fight rushed on past us, and the sound of the firing 
gradually went beyond hearing. The servants brought 
me in, and the man went for a surgeon. Fortunately, he 
met one not far off. When I came to, — for I had fainted, 
— my wound was dressed. I asked the doctor if I was badly 
hurt. He tried to smile, and said that if I kept still and had 
good care all would be well. But — do you know? — I 


So 


HOW WILL IT END? 


believe he tried to deceive me. I have been growing 
weaker and weaker every day. See how thin my hands 
are. Do you think it is a very bad wound 

^‘1 hope not, my child. But you must not speak too 
much. ^ ^ 

‘‘I am so glad you have come. I want to talk with 
you. And I can rest better to-night. It will not be so 
lonely while you are here. Hark ! was that a horse ? I 
thought I heard a horse^s feet. Is it very late ?’’ 

‘^It is time for you to sleep, I suppose. There, do not 
talk any more to-night. We will sit by you.’* 

^^But you have not had anything to eat. I did not 
think of it.” 

Do not mention it, my good girl. We are very well 
as we are.” 

But you must have some supper. If you will be so 
good as to ring that bell, — yes, you must to please me. 
And then I will go to sleep if you wish, — or we will 
converse, for I am not sleepy.” 

She was, indeed, not sleepy. A feverish excitement 
possessed her, which prevented sleep. Perceiving this. 
Sister Mary thought it best to humor the wounded girl, 
and rang for the servant. When she came, Clementine 
directed the woman to place some food before the travel- 
ers. They said that a piece of bread and a cup of milk 
was all they desired ; and presently a frugal supper was 
served, of which they partook sparingly, and in silence. 

While they were eating, the sufferer had closed her 
eyes, and seemed to have fallen into a light slumber. 
The guests refrained from speaking, and some time elapsed 
ere a word was again heard in the room. 

At length the invalid started, opened her eyes wide, 
and exclaimed, — 

Did you hear it ? Hark !” 


FAITH WRONGLY PLACED. 


8i 


After listening for a moment, the sound of a horse’s feet 
was distinctly audible. 

’Tis he ! he is coming ! he is here ! he has come ! 
But you must not see him,” cried Clementine, excitedly. 
^‘Go into that room, please,” she added, pointing to a 
door. 

Surprised, the strangers arose, and passed by that door 
into an inner chamber. 


CHAPTER X. 

FAITH WRONGLY PLACED. 

• 

The travelers had hardly closed the door which sepa- 
rated them from the sick girl when they heard heavy foot- 
steps enter the room in which she lay. So thin was the 
wall of partition that every word uttered distinctly in one 
chamber could be heard in the other. At first Sister Mary 
and her companion heard unwillingly, and because they 
could not help it, what passed between their suffering 
hostess and her visitor; but after a time they listened 
eagerly, and with a purpose. 

So you threaten me, do you?” The voice was that of a 
man, excited, loud and harsh. ‘‘Did you write that letter?” 

“Yes,” answered Clementine, in a gentle, deprecating 
tone. “ Do not be angry.” 

“ Do you mean all that you say here?” 

“ I wanted so much to see you, and you paid no atten- 
tion to all my other letters. It is a very long time since 
you have been here, — not since my mother was killed.” 

“ Killed, was she ?” 


82 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


I sent you word all about it, more than two weeks ago, 

and how badly I was wounded- '' 

Served you right for being such a fool as to get in the 
way. You ought to have been killed yourself, and I wish 
to God you had been ! ’ ^ 

The man’s manner of speaking was like that of one 
partially intoxicated, or at least excited by strong drink. 

‘‘Why, what have I done?” asked Clementine. 

“ Done ? everything. I cannot have a moment’s peace. 
Because I have been so busy that I could not attend to all 
your invitations and complaints, you must write a letter 
threatening to confess all and ‘expose’ me if I do not 
come. Very well. Try to betray me, and you will con- 
vict yourself. Who carried on the negotiations ? You. 
Who crossed the lines? You. Who did the writing? 
You. Who was the traitor? You. What did I do? 
Nothing. As if I were the man to put my own head in 
the hangman’s rope ! As for yourself, you may go hang 
when you will ; and the sooner the better. ’ ’ 

“And why did I do all this?” 

“ Because you were a d — d fool, I suppose.” 

“Yes, so great a fool as to think, to feel, that I could 
not do too much for you ; that risking my soul was not 
enough, and so I threw my life into the venture. But 
that I did innocently, for you made me believe it was 
right.” 

“Did I? Well, you can fancy so still if you wish, 
and hold your tongue about it. Then your life will be 
safe ” 

“But my life is not safe, and it is that about which I 
wish to talk with you. Let us not quarrel any more. 
Listen to me patiently. Do you not see that I am going 
to die? This wound will kill me. You do not notice 
how I am changed. I have grown weaker every day, 


FAITH WRONGLY PLACED, 83 

and now no strength is left me. See my hand ; you can 
look through it, almost. ’ ’ 

Don’t be a simpleton.” 

‘‘I am not, and I wish to be wiser than I have been. 
I know that I shall not live long ; but I cannot die as I am. ’ ’ 

‘‘What do you want?” 

“I want you to keep your solemn promise and marry 
me ” 

“You be d— d!” 

“How can you say such dreadful things to me? You 
know the past, how you pledged yourself, and swore, by 
all that men hold most sacred, to make me your wife. I 
wish you to do it now, and save me. Death will hide 
away . my disgrace, it is true, but I dare not meet it thus. 
Make me your wife, and lift this terrible weight from my 
conscience. It will be but a little while, a few days at 
most, and you will be free again.” 

“How do I know that? You may not die.” 

“ But I shall. I know it. I feel it. If I did not, I 
would not so urge you. It is hard, indeed, to see ex- 
posure, disgrace, and ruin coming surely and fast upon 
me ; yet I could bear that were I sure to live. But to die 
in such a condition, — oh, pity me, and save me from this ! 
How is it that you are so altered ? I felt so safe in loving 
you. It appeared impossible that one whose mind seemed 
filled with noble thoughts could ever act basely ; that one 
who publicly, and so eloquently, praised all virtue could 
ever fail to love it. When I heard you speak, and saw that 
all the world admired you, it was to me as if my soul were far 
too small to envelop and hold fast to itself all your great- 
ness, all your goodness. And so I deemed that whatsoever 
you should ask of me must be right, however I might doubt, 
and that all in my power to grant was too little. No matter 
now. I am as I am, and you, — ah ! you have changed. Such 


84 


now WILL IT END? 


thoughts as you then uttered, and the purpose of such deeds 
as you since have done, never dwelt together. But I do 
not wish to reproach you. I only ask you to do one thing, — 
to make me your wife, and take away my sin and reproach.” 

‘‘That is not much, is it?” 

“And you will do it? Oh, say you will !” 

“ I shall say nothing of the kind. I do not choose to 
be bullied by a woman.” 

“What! You will not?” 

“ That is about it.” 

“You refuse to keep your word, and make me your 
wife?” 

“I do. I have other fish to fry.” 

“ Then, Heaven helping me, I will make such shrift as I 
can ; and you must take the consequences. ’ ^ 

“More threats, eh?” 

“ I have sent for my brother.” 

“Oh, you have, have you? What will he do? Who 
got him his commission ?’ ’ 

“You did. You were very kind to us then ^ — could 
not do enough or promise enough then. But I have sent 
for him. And he will come. I wrote him that I was 
wounded to death, and that he must come. He will be 
here soon. Would to Heaven he were here now !” 

“Very well, let him come. Only do not urge him to 
put himself in the way of danger. This talking makes 
me thirsty. Is this brandy?” And the speaker helped 
himself to a draught, saying, “ Here’s to your better 
temper, my love.” 

“Pestyfog Clappergong, you mock me I” cried Clem- 
entine, still more excited. 

Yes, the man who had, thus far, carried on a part in 
this strange conversation, was the Honorable Pestyfog 
Clappergong. Irritated by the events that had taken 


FAITH WRONGLY PLACED. 


S5 


place in the afternoon and early hours of the evening, 
- mortified and enraged by the treatment he had received 
from Marion, he had already drunk more strong drink 
than was his custom, when Clementine’s servant brought 
him a message that he did not think it well to disregard. 
Mounting his horse, he had ridden fast towards the cot- 
tage, but halted at every opportunity to brace his nerves 
and raise his spirits with more brandy-and- water. Usually, 
he was too cautious to give way to excess ; but on this 
occasion he anticipated no need of particular prudence or 
policy. Guessing, vaguely, the especial reason for this 
summons, his mind was at once made up as to his course 
of conduct. But that course would have been pursued 
with more deceit and hypocrisy had he drunk less. He 
had plans, as is known, very different from, and that 
would have been marred by carrying out, that insisted on 
by Clementine. He felt much confidence in his powers 
of evasion, and, as to most matters, that confidence was 
not misplaced. He possessed influence, and he knew how 
to make the most of it. 

Have you forgotten what I said in that letter?” went 
on Clementine, with increasing vehemence. ‘‘ That will 
I do unless you act as you should, and as you have prom- 
ised, in this matter.” 

‘^And I have told you to do it and be hanged. You 
cannot hurt me. Besides, I have hedged. I am going to 
catch a spy to-night, — a spy who does not know himself 
that he is one,” — here the Honorable gentleman laughed 
hoarsely, — ^‘and that will be doing the State some ser- 
vice. At any rate, the fools who believe themselves the 
State will think so. I made him myself on purpose to catch. 
And if I do not get him, I shall have done the other side 
a good turn, which they will remember if worst comes to 
worst and we are whipped. I shall have sent them some 

8 


86 


JIOW WILL IT END? 


papers which they would gladly buy at a round price, 
and in a way, too, that cannot, in any event, be dis- 
covered and proved against me by our heroes. So, you 
see, my darling, I have the chances all in my favor, and 
you need not try to frighten me. It is useless, my love.^^ 

‘^Then nothing will move yoa?^^ 

You cannot do it, my dear. And, as I said, you had 
better hold your tongue. But whether you do or not 
makes no difference to me. There is no evidence against 
me but your word ; and I would take care that nobody 
should believe that.’^ 

You forget the paper which it was necessary that you 
should sign, and which I was to deliver to the other 
party. That party was satisfied to see the document, and, 
at my request, returned it to me 

And now ” 

‘‘I have it.*' 

You have it ?" 

Yes, I have it." 

Give it to me. " 

When I am your wife." 

Give it to me now." 
will not." 

It will be better for you." 

I say I will not." 

Where is it ?" 

^^Safe, — safe enough." 

Give it to me, I tell you. D — n you, give it to me !" 

‘'Never!" 

“ Then I will murder you." 

“ You dare not.’* 

“ Dare not ? dare not ? d — n you !** And he seized the 
courageous girl by the throat. 

“ Help 1 help 1" she cried, in a stifled voice. The door 


FAITH RIGHTLY PLACED. 87 

opened instantly, and the two Sisters stood, like two ghosts, 
before the appalled gaze of the would-be murderer. 
^^Hold, rash man commanded Sister Mary. 
‘^Villain!” exclaimed Sister Marguerite, as they both 
advanced quickly towards him. 

He did not wait, but rushed from the house ; and the 
sound of his horse's flying feet soon died away in the dis- 
tance. 


CHAPTER XL 

FAITH RIGHTLY PLACED. 

The woman-servant, and the man who had carried 
the letter to the Honorable Mr. Clappergong, hastily 
came into the room which that gentleman had just left, 
alarmed by the cries of their mistress. They found her 
insensible, and the Sisters bending over her. She had 
fainted. After some time spent anxiously by them all in 
efforts to restore her to consciousness, she slowly opened 
her eyes and looked around. Her gaze expressed a 
strange mixture of terror, anxiety, and hopelessness. A 
great change had come over her. The appearance of 
feverish excitement and strength which the strangers had 
noticed during their first interview with her, had given 
place to one of extreme weakness and quiet, almost torpor. 
The fever had entirely disappeared; her eyes also had 
lost their unnatural brilliancy, and now looked dull and 
languid. 

Has he gone?" she asked, in a whisper. 

Yes. But we are all here with you, my child," re- 
plied Sister Mary. 


88 


HOW WILL IT END? 


The sufferer closed her eyes and was a long time silent. 
At length she opened them again, and, looking at Sister 
Mary, she said, — 

‘‘I want to talk with you alone. I want you to help 
me. You will, wonT you?’^ 

Sister Mary bent down, and, kissing her, said, softly, — 
With all my heart and strength. Leave us by our- 
selves,’’ she added, turning to the servants; and they 
went out. < 

^‘And you, sister,” she continued, addressing Sister 
Marguerite, ‘^go and pray for us.” 

Sister Marguerite withdrew to the room whither she 
and Sister Mary had retired on the arrival of the Honor- 
able Pestyfog. 

Upon Sister Marguerite’s withdrawal from the room, 
Clementine lifted her eyes, and, gazing earnestly at Sister 
Mary, said, in a low, solemn voice, which at the same 
time betrayed a feeling of vague terror, — 

want you to speak, with me of death and my soul. 
I want you to save my soul. Can you not?” 

‘‘/cannot,” answered Sister Mary, gently; “but there 
is One who can, and who will, if you ask Him sincerely, 
as you ask me, believing, too, that He can, and that He 
will.” 

“ But you do not know how bad I have been, how bad 
I am. I want to tell you all ; and then, maybe, you will 
see that there is no way for me.” 

“ Ah, I know that there is a way for all, my dear; for 
you as well as for others. But say to me what you wish. 
It will do you good.” 

And then Clementine told, painfully, all the sad story 
of her temptation and fall ; of her brief happiness, and 
her enduring sorrow ; of the brightness of her short-lived 
hopes, and the darkness of her long despair, lighted, 


FAITH RIGHTLY PLACED. 


89 


indeed, by some faint, lingering rays of illusions forever 
set, till now all was dreary darkness, voiceless and star- 
less night. And the forward look was into deeper dark- 
ness and storm ; the great storm of His wrath, and the 
endless night. 

She sought not to place the blame for her wrong-doing 
on another. She felt that it was all her own, and only 
spoke of that other as the means, not the cause, of her sin, 
and thus only so far as was needful to make her story 
plain. For his sake she had helped him in political plots 
and intrigues which were dishonorable, and, by the law 
of the land, criminal. But the remembrance of these acts 
troubled her less. 

When she had finished her recital, or confession, she 
looked wistfully and timidly into Sister Mary^s face, as if 
she feared to hear her condemnation pronounced. The 
gentle Sister took her hand and, tenderly kissing her fore- 
head, tried to comfort her by turning her thoughts to the 
only Source of comfort. The invalid listened intently as 
the sweet voice went on, relating His invitations. His 
promises. His gentleness. His love. His forgiving pity. 
His all-atoning sufferings and sacrifice; illustrating the 
truth of what she said by many examples : by the story of 
Mary Magdalene, of the woman taken in adultery, of the 
woman who dared only to touch the hem of His garment, 
and of many saints and martyrs ; urging on her listener, 
in tender, pleading tones, the exercise of penitence and 
faith, faith which sees through the veil that reason cannot 
pierce, and knows that to be which reason would vaunt- 
ingly prove not to be, because unperceived by its short 
vision. 

In this way, with earnest, childlike prayers and tears, 
did Sister Mary strive, fervently, to show the sincerely 

8 * 


90 


JIOJV WILL IT END? 


penitent soul how it should be fitted for the great change 
which was plainly near. 

Thus the hours sped away. Midnight was long passed, 
and the first faint light forerunning the dawn had appeared 
in the east, when the steps of a horse going at full speed 
were heard. Clementine started and looked wildly 
around. 

‘^Oh, do not let him cornel’^ she cried, in terror of 
another visit from the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. 

The horse stopped suddenly at the door, and, a moment 
afterwards, a young officer came hastily into the room. 

Ernest !” almost shrieked the invalid, while a look of 
joy lighted up her wan face. 

My poor sister murmured the officer, as he folded 
her tenderly in his arms. 

Sister Mary, leaving them together, quietly withdrew to 
the chamber where Sister Marguerite was waiting, whom 
she found kneeling by the side of the bed, her head bowed 
upon the coverings and her face in her hands. 

For some minutes the brother held the sister in a close 
embrace, and both were still. Clementine spoke first. 

am so glad you have come,’^ she said. ‘‘You will 
take care of me ; you will stay here with me now, will you 
not, Ernest?” 

“Yes, darling,” he answered ; “I will not leave you 
till you are well again.” 

“Well again ! Oh, Ernest, I shall never be well again 
in this world! You will not be obliged to remain long. 
I have only a short time to live. I know it, Ernest, and 
you must not try to deceive me. I shall be better when 
I am gone, I hope. Yes, I hope, dear Ernest,” she re- 
peated, clasping her small, thin hands together, and look- 
ing devoutly upward, while an indescribable light softly 
illumined her pale countenance, as burning spirit glows 


FAITH RIGHTLY PLACED. 


91 

through alabaster, — I hope by His mercy and His 
merits.’^ 

And then she went on, speaking in a weak voice, but 
with animation, to tell him of how lost and hopeless she 
had been till the good Sister came, sent like an angel of 
pity, and led her to the little wicket-gate, through the 
Valley of Humiliation, to the cross, where her burden 
rolled away, up the Hill Difficulty, safely by the lions, to 
the Palace Beautiful ; and had promised to be by her as 
she should go through the Valley of the Shadow of Death ; 
to guide her to the Delectable Mountains and the Land 
of Beulah, pointing out the celestial gates, and only 
leaving her when she should go into the river, and be 
in sight of the messengers waiting to conduct her to the 
Holy City. She said nothing of, and did not even make 
an allusion to, the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. 

The brother listened with tearful eyes, his hands clasped 
in hers. But he was not satisfied to have the doings of that 
Honorable gentleman passed by in silence. In her letter 
to him, written when she was in great trouble, she had 
said enough to make it possible for her brother to infer 
much of the truth ; and he now insisted upon knowing 
the whole. She tried to evade his questions, but he was 
persistent and unbending in his purpose, and gradually 
drew from her admissions sufficient to make the facts clear 
in his own mind. The revelation thus obtained he heard 
with dry eyes, and his voice grew hard and hoarse as he 
questioned. When he learned that the Honorable Pestyfog 
Clappergong had positively refused to redeem his word 
and wed Clementine, although he did not know with 
what gratuitous insult and brutality the refusal had been 
made, his dark, manly features seemed to be hardened 
like steel, and a strange and sinister light to be kindled 
in the depths of his large, black, piercing eyes as he 


92 


JIOJV WILL IT END? 


raised himself from bending over his sister and sat 
erect. 

Do not be angry with me, dear Ernest,’^ pleaded the 
sufferer. 

Angry with you, my poor child, my own darling!’^ 
answered he, taking her again in his arms, very gently 
and tenderly ; that would be impossible. There 1 there ! 
do not think of it any more. You were right not to speak 
of him ; he is unworthy of your thoughts now. ’ ’ And he 
kissed her pale forehead, her eyes, and her cheeks, again 
and again. 

^^And you must not think of him, either,’^ said the 
now forgiving and patient girl. ^‘You must not seek to 
punish, but leave him to be dealt with by the great Judge 
of us all, who cannot err. Promise me that you will do 
this.’^ 

Ernest tried to avoid making the promise asked ; • but 
the prayers of his sister at length wrung from him such an 
assent as seemed to satisfy her. 

Then, after a short silence, she said, — 

, ‘‘You will take all my trinkets, Ernest, and keep some 
of them for little brother when he gets older. Oh, what 
will the poor child do without me?*' 

And then she expresssed some further wishes in regard 
to the disposition of various things which had been her 
own and especially cherished by her. Afterwards she 
closed her eyes and was as if in a light slumber. Ernest, 
kneeling by her side, watched her. In a short time, how- 
ever, she raised her lids and said, — 

“Call the Sisters, Ernest, — it is time.’^ 

Her brother did as requested, and Sisters Mary and 
Marguerite came at once to the aid of the invalid. They 
perceived that it was indeed time. Sister Mary set about 
administering such last rites of her Church as she could; 


FAITH RIGHTLY PLACED. 


93 


and, when these solemn and touching ceremonials were 
over, the little brother and the servants were called, and 
shortly entered the room. The poor child wept bitterly, 
and would not be comforted. 

Clementine said some last words to her brothers and 
the servants, and bade each person present an affectionate 
good-by. Then, with her left arm lying across the neck 
of the child, who was kneeling and sobbing by the couch, 
and her left hand held by Ernest, she gave her right hand 
to Sister Mary, saying, — 

‘‘You will not leave me.’’ 

She lay with her eyes closed. After awhile she mur- 
mured, as if to Sister Mary, — 

“ Lead me safely.” 

For some time she did not speak again. Then she 
said, — 

“I must cover my little plants. There will be a frost 
to-night ; it grows cold. ’ ’ 

Nothing now, for the space of a quarter of an hour, 
was heard in the room but the sobs of the child and the 
ticking of the old-fashioned clock in the corner, which 
seemed to augment the force of its strokes as they marked 
the seconds, emphasizing them with a kind of intelligent, 
almost triumphant, energy and glee, as if it were saying, 
“I told ye so, I told ye so,” and were exulting in the 
fulfillment of its unheeded prophecies. 

By-and-by Clementine murmured, — 

“Ah, I feel so well now, — not cold, — the sun is rising, 
— ^how soft and warm and bright it is ! I shall not be 
cold or lonely any more !” 

Dawn had, indeed, appeared, but not yet broken into 
the room. The sun was still below the horizon. Was it 
the light of the Sun, with healing in His beams, that she 
saw, making her well forever ? 


94 


JIOW WILL IT END? 


A few minutes later, Sister Mary bent her face to that 
of the dying girl, and perceived that she was now living 
for evermore. She had ceased to breathe. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THOUGHTS — PLANS — AN INTERVIEW — INTERRUPTION. 

As the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong rode from 
Clementine’s cottage towards the mansion of General 
Devray, he heartily cursed all womankind. They were 
always giving him some d — d annoyance by their in- 
fernally whimsical and romantic notions. They really 
treated him very badly. He could not understand why 
they need be such importunate fools ; why they could not 
be a little reasonable, like other folks, — that is, like men. 
He found them very capricious, captiously and ill-na- 
turedly exacting, absurdly unjust and extravagant in their 
expectations and claims, ready to suspect him of all kinds 
of dishonorable and unworthy conduct. He was, indeed, 
much abused by them. It was certainly too bad to dis- 
trust a man so good and so honorable, and show that dis- 
trust by asking him to keep his word ; his word, on which 
had been staked honor, happiness, and, as might truly be 
felt, salvation. 

Miss Marion, to be sure, asked nothing; but she snubbed 
him, and was stupid enough to show a preference for that 
mean cheat and impostor the colonel.” Miss Mabie, to 
whom he had proved his love by accepting every advantage 
and pleasure which she could offer as proofs of her own, 
was so wantonly unreasonable as to suspect him of playing 


THOUGHTS. 


95 


her false, and seemed to put no more trust in him than she 
would had he not readily — but not very tenderly or warmly, 
it must be admitted — taken all that she had to give. And 
now the wretched Clementine, to spend an evening with 
whom he had often robbed himself of his usual rest and 
sleep, and ridden over heavy roads, even in inclement 
weather, must turn upon him, take an unfair advantage of 
him, and wish to spoil all his plans, check him in mid- 
career, and blight his prospects of an easy fortune and a 
comfortable future, by forcing him to marry her. As if a 
man should be holden to fulfill all the promises he might 
make to a girl in the heat of passion, — a thing clearly 
impossible ; and as if such promises were not made under 
a kind of duress ! Surely it was enough to drive a man, 
with correct notions of things, honest and just, beyond 
the limits of all patience. 

As he thought again of Clementine, and what had so 
lately taken place between her and himself came vividly, 
almost appallingly, to his mind, he reined in his horse, 
which he had been urging savagely but unconsciously. 
His surprise, not to say terror, at the sudden appearance 
of the Sisters, and the cool night air, had dissipated his 
intoxication, and he could review his conduct, which he 
remembered only indistinctly, with reasonable calmness, 
as well as consider the danger with which Clementine 
threatened him. 

His first impulse was to go back and try, by wheedling 
and promises, to get from her the only unanswerable 
proof of his treason to the government which he had 
helped to make and sworn to support. A little reflection, 
however, convinced him that this was not the time to 
carry through such a plan successfully. He must wait till 
those accursed strangers should have gone away, and the 
injured girl had time to forget his violence, enough to 


96 


WILL IT END? 


wish again to see him. Then, with a few well-shaped 
and well-uttered excuses, a little show of tenderness, some 
seemingly sincere caresses, much talk of regret, if neces- 
sary, and even some tears as a last resort, she would be 
brought to hear his vows as eagerly and as credulously as 
ever. Thus should he gain his point, and get hold of 
that d — d paper, all in good time ; for she was not going 
to die just yet \ not half so soon as he wished she might, 
d — n her ! In the mean while he had other and sufficient 
occupation for his thoughts. The morrow, which would 
soon dawn, was to be a busy day, and he had no common 
interest in what should then take place. He must be 
ready to guide the action and control the result. Clemen- 
tine and her affairs could wait a day or two, and be all 
the better for it. 

These matters arranged in his own mind, and his course 
determined on, he quickened his horse^s pace, and, reach- 
ing General Devray^s house before the family were stirring, 
groomed his heated steed himself, and went to bed, to 
enjoy, if he could, a few hours’ sleep. 

The family was not stirring, it is true, but one of its 
members slumbered not. Marion had dismissed her maid 
and thrown herself upon a lounge, and there, with her face 
buried in its cushions, had she lain for hours as silent and 
motionless as if inanimate ; save when, from time to time, 
a sigh, long and deep, convulsed her exquisite form. 
Occasionally, indeed, she would raise her head, and, look- 
ing helplessly around, moan, — 

Oh, what have I done ! What shall I do ?” 

Then she would resume her motionless posture, lying 
upon her face. Thus the hours of the night passed her 
unnoticed. 

As the first beams of day flushed the eastern sky, she 
arose, and, seating herself at a window, watched the deep- 


PLANS. 


97 


ening glow in the heavens. With the morning, hope 
seemed to dawn upon her, and grew brighter as the sun 
came above the horizon. The benumbing effect of the 
events which had taken place the preceding evening 
passed away with the night, and a reaction set in, causing 
her vigorous intelligence to grasp with unusual power and 
sharpness of perception the facts and probabilities which 
most interested her. She was, however, too ignorant of 
the actual situation of Allerton to decide upon any definite 
plan of action. That he was a spy, as alleged by Colonel 
Clappergong, she did not for a moment believe. That he 
was an enemy to the cause which she had so much at 
heart, she knew from his own lips. Had he fallen before 
his hunters? Had he been taken by them? Was he 
wounded? Was he still living? Had he escaped to his 
friends? Had she, in any case, driven him from her for- 
ever? She could find no answer to these racking ques- 
tions, which continually recurred to her anxious spirit. 
It pleased her most to fancy that he had been captured, 
and would be brought back a prisoner. Then she could, 
at least, communicate with, perhaps without impropriety 
see, him ; might make such amends for her conduct, by 
defending him, and proving his innocence, and comfort- 
ing him, that he could not refuse to forgive her. She 
thought of a thousand expressions of regret and self-accu- 
sation which she would use, a thousand forms of prayer 
for pardon, a thousand ways of approaching him which 
should surely make him overlook her hasty words and acts. 
And so intently did she think of all this, so vividly did 
she imagine how he would look and act, and what she 
would do and say, that her lips moved, and the words 
formed in her mind almost became audible. Perhaps, 
had she known that he was safe, and that she might 
see him at will, she would have been less disposed to ac-> 

9 


98 


J/OPV WILL IT END? 


cuse herself and more disposed to accuse him ; would 
have calculated more how much humility she ought to 
show, or whether, under the circumstances, she should 
humble herself at all before him. Her nature was, how- 
ever, so magnanimous, so truly frank and loyal, and her 
heart so just and sincere in its impulses, that it is proba- 
ble, had he then appeared before her, she would, in a de- 
lirium of mingled joy and penitence, have thrown herself 
into his arms, and wondered at his gentleness and good- 
ness, in forgiving her at all. 

Cheered by the hope that what her wish had suggested 
and her imagination pictured might occur, she rang for 
her maid at an unusually early hour, and, after she had 
finished dressing, partook of a simple breakfast in her 
chamber. She was indisposed to meet the other members 
of the household in the breakfast-room, particularly the 
Honorable Mr. Clappergong. Shortly after she had made 
her repast, however, a written message was brought to her 
from that Honorable gentleman, requesting an interview. 
Acting from the impulse of the moment, she wrote and 
sent an answer to him, as follows : 

You will please spare me the pain of seeing, and even 
of refusing to see, you again. After what has transpired 
there cannot be so much as friendship between us. Call 
yourself to my recollection in no way ; but let me concede 
to you the greatest indulgence in my power, which is, 
utterly to forget yourself and your persecutions. 

Marion Devray.’^ 

She did not superscribe her note, nor put the Honorable 
Mr. Clappergong’ s naiiie on it anywhere. She felt so great 
an aversion to his name even that she would not write it 
if not absolutely necessary. And in this case there was no 


AN INTERVIEW, 


99 


need of it, since the servant was to take the reply directly 
to him who sent the request. The messenger presently 
returned with a more urgent petition from the Honorable 
gentleman to be permitted to see Miss Marion. Mean- 
while she had half repented her refusal, for it occurred to 
her that perhaps he might bring some news or let fall 
some expression from which she could gain an intimation 
of what had taken place in relation to the fugitive, — ask 
him directly she would not, — and this time she consented 
to receive him in the drawing-room. 

When he appeared, Marion acknowledged his greeting 
very coldly. He trusted she had rested comfortably and 
felt quite recovered from the effects of last evening’s acci- 
dent. She thanked him, she had passed the night very 
well. He feared that, in his anxiety to assure himself of 
her welfare, he had made an untimely demand on her in- 
dulgence. She assured him that she should not have con- 
sented to receive a visit from him had it put her to any 
inconvenience. He hoped she was not offended by any- 
thing he had said or done yesterday. She let him know 
that some persons could not offend any more than they 
could insult her. 

She was plainly keeping him at a long distance from, 
and below, her. He was not, however, to be daunted by 
a forbidding manner. Besides, he felt that it was neces- 
sary for him to act quickly. His schemes must be brought 
to fruit at once or be blighted. There was some danger, 
although, he thought, not very great or immediate, that 
what she had threatened Clementine might accomplish. 
Aside from that danger, he felt a certain uneasiness as to 
what consequences might grow out of his conduct when 
last with her, known as to some extent it must be by 
those d — d Sisters. He had for some time been losing 
confidence in his party, and doubted of its ultimate sue- 


lOO 


HOW WILL IT END? 


cess in the war. He had begun to face the possibility that 
a heavy retribution might, in case of failure, be visited 
upon him with other leaders and instigators. To avoid 
all annoyances which might come from any of these sources 
of disquiet, his favorite plan was to make Marion his wife, 
and obtain some appointment abroad in the diplomatic 
service of his government, as a decent pretext for quitting 
the country and abandoning the cause in which he had 
engaged, and in which he had so often, most publicly and 
solemnly, avowed his determination to conquer or die. 
The alliance with Marion was a necessary part of this plan 
only so far as it would give him control of her large for- 
tune, which, as has been stated, was safely invested in a 
foreign land. He had expected to bring all this about 
without hurry ; but the occurrences of the last twenty-four 
hours, and the apprehension of their possible results, made 
him feel in great haste to carry his plan into effect and be 
off. He had already intrigued for, and received a promise 
of, the diplomatic appointment, and was expecting his 
commission shortly. Now he came with such logic and 
rhetoric as he thought might suffice to induce Marion to 
enter into his views, and intrust herself and her wealth to 
his keeping. But he was not in a condition to do full 
justice to his ability as an advocate. The distractions 
through which he had so lately passed, the dangers by 
which he was surrounded, and which seemed to be closing 
in upon him, the necessity for instant action and achieve- 
ment, and the importance to him of the interests at stake, 
rendered him nervous and weak, taking from him much 
of his usual sturdy self-possession and self-reliance, and, 
with them, much of his hardy skill. 

^‘If my visit be ill timed,’’ he went on to say, ^^my 
excuse is that I have not the courage longer to defer say- 
ing what I now beg you to hear.” 


AN INTERVIEW. 


lOI 


must ask you to defer it, if it be anything very 
serious,’^ said Marion. 

Very serious it is to me ; to you it may be a light 
thing, — serve for your mirth, perhaps. I must run this 
chance, for the torture of uncertainty is the worst. You 
cannot fail to divine the subject that lies nearest my 
heart, about which hover hopes and doubts, making a 
civil war in the confines of my soul and tearing me with 
their conflicts. You cannot but have seen how my imagi- 
nation has been led in chains by your beauty, my mind 
captured by your wit and intelligence, and my heart 
enthralled by your goodness. I come now, driven to 
recklessness by alternations of hope and despair, love 
and jealousy, — jealousy of all and everything upon which 
you may smile, on which your hand may rest, which your 
foot may tread upon even, to stake all my future, all my 
hopes, all that life can have of happiness for me, on one 
throw ; to tell you my love, so far as the poverty of lan- 
guage will permit me, and ask that you give me your own 

in return ; to offer you my hand, and ask for your 

^‘But, sir, this is a matter 

Do not answer yet. I offer you not an empty hand 
nor an unknown name. Of this you are aware. But you 
are not aware that I have assured a brilliant future for you 
if you become my wife. I am expecting, daily, my com- 
mission as minister to a foreign court. There, and there 
only, would you be elevated to your proper sphere. Were 
there any doubt about my receiving this commission, it 
would be dispelled by what I have just succeeded in doing 
for our cause. 

‘‘You give yourself unnecessary ” 

“Pardon me. Hear me to the end, I beg. I know 
the deep and earnest patriotism which fills your soul. 
This first awoke my admiration ; it was a bond of sympa- 

9 * 


102 


HOW WILL IT END? 


thy between us. I know the detestation which you feel 
for deceit, hypocrisy, and treachery, equaled only by 
that which I myself entertain. You will hear, then, with 
pleasure, what I have to tell. This morning, Trangolar, 
who did not come back till late last evening, discovered 
that his most important drawings had been stolen from 
his room. He was in a state of great excitement about 
it, particularly when he learned that the detached officers 
who had been so long guests at this house had gone away, 
with the purpose of escaping to the enemy, thus declaring 
themselves to be traitors and spies ” 

Colonel Clappergong 

I but express what he said of them and their conduct. 
He sought for the lost papers in vain. A few minutes ago, 
however, I received a dispatch, which informed me that 
both these officers had been taken and brought into camp ; 
and that a set of drawings, corresponding in every 
respect with those lost by Trangolar, had been found on 
the person of one of them, actually in the colonel’s 

boot But you are ill. Such treachery is, indeed, 

astounding and sickening. Let me offer you a glass of 
water. ’ ’ 

‘^No, sir; I am perfectly well. Go on, if you please.” 

^^My services in detecting, and preventing the escape 
of, these spies — for they would have escaped but for me — 
will certainly be rewarded by the government. At least 
my appointment will thus be made sure, if, as I have no 
reason to think, it were before uncertain. With this con- 
fident expectation I ask you to become my wife, and share 
the honors which I may call already mine.” 

And so you say the colonel and his friend are spies?” 

Proven.” 

^^And that you prevented their escape and procured 
their capture?” 


AN INTERVIEW, 


103 


Yes, I alone.” 

You will, I suppose, see that they are convicted?” 

‘^That I will.” 

^‘And executed?” 

With all my heart.” 

‘‘In this way you will earn the honors which you ask 
me to share?” 

“Partially.” 

“You knew that they were my friends, did you not?” 

“I knew that you could have no friends among the 
enemies of your country.” 

“ But I tell you that those gentlemen are my friends. I 
tell you that the accusation against them must be false ; 
that it is false ; some enemy — some conspiracy — that is 
it, a plot to destroy them. And I firmly believe that you 
are at the bottom of it. But it shall not succeed. No 
harm shall come to them, if I can prevent it ; and I am 
not powerless, though I am a woman.” 

“Really, I am very sorry. I quite thought to please 
you ; I counted on your well-known love for our cause, 
your hatred of guile, and believed that your approbation 
would be my best reward. I was not aware that you es- 
teemed these men so highly. Such proofs against them 
ought, certainly, to change your opinion. But, if not, 
perhaps I might use some influence to help them out of 
the scrape, — just to please you. Yes, and I will promise 
to do so, if you will but promise to marry me. I will 
help you to set them free. ’ ’ 

“And I will set them free without your help.” 

“Perhaps in that case I might show you to be their 
accomplice, which would be unpleasant, you know. Bet- 
ter let us work together.” 

“Accomplice ! Yes, sir, that I should be if I worked 
with you, for you profess to know them to be guilty. I, on 


104 


HOW WILL IT END? 


the other hand, feel sure of their innocence. I should be 
wise, indeed, to trust so safe an accomplice as yourself, a 
gentleman so trustworthy, a friend so loyal, a lover so 
faithful. I am perfectly well acquainted with the fact, sir, 
that you have been paying your addresses, or, at any rate, 
making love, to Miss Holdon, even up to this very day. 
The happy, deluded creature could not keep your secret. 
I think our interview may end here. There, sir, is the 
door.^^ 

Miss Holdon ! May she be — that is What ! She ? 

I make love to her ? The empty-headed, weak-hearted 
fool ! Why, she has been making love to me, and I could 
not be too hard on her, you know. I had to treat her 
kindly for your sake, if for no other reason. I make love 
to her ! — the owl !’* 

^‘The owl, eh?” cried Miss Mabie, bursting into the 
room, — ‘^the owl, eh? vain fool, eh? make love to you, 
eh ? treat her kindly, eh? Oh, you viper ! you snake ! you 

crocodile ! — you — you ” And here Miss Mabie went 

into hysterics, and the Honorable Mr. Clappergong went 
out of the room. 


CHAPTER XIII.' 

CONFIDENCES — CLUE — K DEPARTURE. 

It is unnecessary to say that Miss Mabie, incited by 
curiosity, suspicion, and jealousy, had been listening at 
the door, which was left ajar, during the Honorable Mr, 
Clappergong^s interview with Marion. For awhile she 
gave herself up to fits of rage, mortification, and heartfelt 
sorrow that her idol had been destroyed, shattered before 


CONFIDENCES. 


105 

her very eyes, and by himself. For shattered, destroyed, 
and defiled he appeared to her just then. After expend- 
ing a portion of her indignation in expletives and desig- 
nations not very flattering to the Honorable gentleman 
at whom they were aimed, and who had so deeply wounded 
and offended her, she became more just, after the manner 
of some persons in similar circumstances, and furiously 
charged all the blame of the Honorable gentleman’s lapse 
from unswerving fidelity on the tricks, coquetries, and 
hypocritic arts of Marion. Oh, she need not deny it. It 
was all her doings, impudent hussy, trying to get away 
other people’s lovers, and making believe all the time 
that she didn’t want them. Oh, she had seen it, she had 
seen it ! It was no use saying it wasn’t so to her; she had 
eyes of her own; she was not quite a fool, though some 
people might think she was. She knew how fond some 
people were of beaux, and how they could not get enough 
of their own. She knew how envious some people were 
if anybody else had a lover. It was no use to talk to 
her, etc. 

But at length the violence of the storm was broken, 
and Miss Mabie sat down and enjoyed a long and refresh- 
ing cry. Marion vainly essayed to stay the flood of her 
tears. When they were exhausted, and Marion had 
smoothed Miss Mabie’ s ruffled plumage by some soothing 
and frank expressions of her own feelings, the two women 
had a long and confidential talk. Both felt the need of 
a confidante. Each was in trouble; each heart was over- 
whelmed with anxiety, but of a different kind. Miss 
Mabie was solicitous to make good her claim to the Hon- 
orable Mr. Clappergong, and could not afford to quarrel 
with him yet ; not till he should be bound firmly to her. 
So she was anxious on that account, and had already for- 
given and forgotten his disloyalty, — that is, only remem- 


HGW WILL IT END? 


io6 

bered it for occasional use, at particular times, when he 
should be, or she should feel that he was, helplessly 
enchained. 

Marion, while making known her painful solicitude on 
Allerton’s account, confessed her love. She informed Miss 
Mabie of the dangers which threatened him and Bulldon ; 
of their recapture through the interference of Colonel Clap- 
pergong; of the accusation, and of the evidence against 
them, as stated by that Honorable gentleman. Notwith- 
standing the offense so recently and so innocently given 
her by the young lady. Miss Mabie felt a sudden and 
unusual affection for Marion,- and could not refrain from 
kissing her when convinced that she did not love, and 
would not, if she could help it, be loved by, the Honor- 
able Mr. Clappergong. 

As Marion recounted how the drawings had been found 
concealed in the colonel’s boot. Miss Mabie’s heart mis- 
gave her. 

^‘Drawings?” said she, with bated breath. ‘^What 
drawings ?” 

‘^Corresponding to those made by Captain Trangolar, 
he said,” replied Marion. 

“ Is it possible ! Who would have thought it !” cried 
Miss Mabie, astonished and shocked beyond measure. 
For at first it flashed through her mind that the Hon- 
orable Mr. Clappergong was in league with the spies, 
and had acted a treasonable part, in giving those draw- 
ings to the colonel and his friend; and that she had 
helped him in that dangerous action ; since she did not 
for a moment doubt that the papers in question were 
those taken from Trangolar’s room. This suspicion took 
away her strength, so that she really labored for breath 
and was ready to faint. Marion noticed her emotion, 
but did not guess its true cause. 


CONFIDENCES. 


107 

is so strange!^’ murmured Miss Mabie; ‘^and they 
were such nice young men/’ 

After a little while, however, her mind seized upon the 
fact that the spies had been arrested through the patriotic 
efforts of her adored Pestyfog, and her terror began to 
subside, as it was clear that had the Honorable gentle- 
man been their accomplice, he would not have sought 
to prevent the escape of the runaway officers. She could 
not suspect that the Honorable Mr. Clappergong had a 
little independent plot of his own ; and she was coming, 
gradually, to believe him wholly guiltless, — that he had 
intended no more than a practical joke on Captain Tran- 
golar, as he had said when he begged her assistance. 
She wished to think it a matter of course that all con- 
nection between the taking of those papers from Tran- 
golar’s room and their discovery on the colonel’s person, 
in a way to compromise him seriously, if any such con- 
nection there were, was purely accidental, never designed 
by the man whom she loved. 

There has been a plot against the colonel ; I am sure 
of it,” said Marion, with energy. 

‘^How can that be?” asked Miss Mabie, but rather 
faintly; for somehow she felt that Marion might be 
speaking truly. 

At this moment Cass entered the room, evidently much 
excited. 

Oh, missy,” he cried, ‘‘dey hab taken bofe ob um ! 
Dey am gwine ter hang um ! An’ de cap’n’s killed ! An’ 
dey hab foun’ de papers ! An’ dey am bofe spies ” 

They are no such thing; and I am ashamed of you, 
Cass,” broke in Marion. 

say so too, missy,” went on Cass; ‘‘but dey say 
it be sure ; an’ dey am gwine to hab a court-martial right 
away off at de fort ” 


io8 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


Who told you all this?’’ asked Marion, interrupting 

him. 

A soldier, missy, dat came ter Massa Clappergong; 
an’ deyhab gone away togedder,” answered the servant. 

But dar warn’t nufifin in de colonel’s boots ’fore he went 
away, ’cause I seen um.” 

Did you clean the colonel’s boots yesterday?” asked 
Marion, as tranquilly as she could. 

Yes, missy, I clean um twice yes’day.” 

‘‘Why did you clean them twice?” 

“’Cause wy Massa Clappergong he tole me ter shine 
um once more.” 

“ Why did he do that ?” 

“ Diln’no, missy. S’pose he seen dey was dirty.” 

“ Where were the boots ?’ ’ 

“Dey war in Massa Colonel’s room, missy.” 

“And you took them out, polished them, and then put 
them back again ?” 

“ No, missy, not zactly so. I tuk um out ob de room. 
But jes’ by Massa Clappergong’ s door he sgen me, an’ 
tole me ter put de boots right down dar an’ run ober wid 
er note ter ” 

“ Did you leave the boots there?” 

“Yes, missy, I lef’ um jes’ dar, right ’fore Massa Clap- 
pergong’s door, an’ went right off wid de letter ” 

“ Did he tell you to put the boots there?” 

“Yes, missy. He tole me he was in a great hurry, an’ 
I mus’ jes’ drop de boots right dar an’ go right away.” 

“Were the boots there when you came back?” 

“Yes, missy, jes’ whar I lef’ um.” 

“ Had anything been done to them, or to either of 
them?” 

“No, missy. I didn’t see nuffin.” 

“Did you polish the boots then?” 


A DEPARTURE, 


109 


Yes, missy, I shine um up/* 

And found nothing in them?’* 

‘^No, missy, nuffin at all.** 

‘‘Bring up my horse, Cass, and saddle one for Miss 
Mabie and one for yourself. You must go with me to my 
father, dear Miss Mabie. Where can Captain Trangolar 
be ? Did he say which way he was going, or when he 
should be back?” 

These directions and questions were uttered by Marion 
in a voice that sounded strangely hard and stern, from the 
effort she made to control her feelings and the vigor of 
her determination. She was very pale, and her dark eyes 
shone with the steady glow of resolution. During the ex- 
amination of Cass, Miss Mabie had sat nervously looking 
first at one and then at the other of the speakers, pulling 
now at one, now at another part of her dress, occasionally 
wringing her hands with a little more violence than usual, 
and pronouncing a series of meaningless exclamations and 
ejaculations. 

Cass knew nothing of Captain Trangolar, except that, 
early in the morning, he had received a note, which was 
brought by a man-servant, and had called for his horse 
and ridden away at once. 

“Very well, Cass,” said Marion. “Go and do as I 
have told you.” 

While Cass was saddling the horses, his mistress and 
Miss Mabie — the latter of whom would have been far less 
willing to go had she not heard that the Honorable Pesty- 
fog had departed with the soldier who brought him news 
of the capture — prepared to ride, and soon they were on 
their way, accompanied by the faithful servant. 


10 


TIO 


HOW WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER XIV. ' 

BROTHER AND SISTER — FR;IENDS MEET. 

When the morning dawned, Sisters Mary and Marguerite 
felt that they could not immediately pursue their way, as 
they had before intended. They could not find it in their 
hearts to leave the grief-stricken Ernest and his weeping, 
doubly-orphaned little brother alone with their dead. Yet 
they were very anxious to accomplish the purpose of their 
journey; and, after some thought, it was decided that 
Sister Marguerite should send word to her brother, telling 
him of their presence in the neighborhood, and asking him 
to come to them at once. So Sister Marguerite wrote a 
note, which the man who had carried poor Clementine^ s 
last message to the Honorable Mr. Clappergong under- 
took to have conveyed to its destination by one of the 
servants of a friendly neighbor, to whose house he was 
going in order to communicate the sad news of his mis- 
tress’s death and beg those kindly offices generally ren- 
dered by neighbors and friends on such occasions. This 
was the note which had been brought to Captain Trango- 
lar, and he was the brother sought. Only delaying to 
instruct his confidential servant to send after him any 
orders which might arrive, he set out to join his sister. 

A pleasant ride in the cool of the morning brought him 
to the house of grief. His surprise, on learning that his 
sister was so near him, only equaled the pleasure of seeing 
and embracing her again. She met him outside the cot- 
tage. After the first greetings were over, and the first 
affectionate questions asked and answered, she led him to 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


in 


a rustic bench placed under a tree in the little garden. 
Seating herself by his side and taking both his hands in 
her own, she said, — 

‘^Now, Trig” (Captain Trangolar’s first name was 
Trigonom), am going to answer no questions that I 
do not want to ; but you are going to answer all my ques- 
tions, and do just as I tell you.” 

‘^That is hardly fair,” said Trig, smiling. 

Reasons of state and strategy, you know,” broke in 
Marguerite. 

‘‘Then you won’t tell me why you came here?” asked 
Trig. 

“ Oh, yes \ to see you, and for something else. And 
the something else is the most important, — though I am 
right glad to see you, too ; but I shall not tell you what 
it is,” replied Marguerite. 

“ Nor how you came here ?” 

“Oh, yes; I will tell you that too. Part of the way 
on foot, and part of the way — — ” 

“ Of course ! of course ! But you did not come alone?” 

“ No ; a good friend of mine, another Sister of Charity — ’ ’ 

“You a Sister of Charity?” 

“To be sure. Do you not see my dress?” 

“You always were a charitable sister to me, darling. 
So another Sister of Charity came with you? What did 
she come for?” 

“To take care of me, and for something else.” 

“And the something else is more important, eh?” 

“Oh, much more important. But she is a real Sister, 
and so good and kind.” 

“I am glad to see you cheerful and happy, darling, 
after all the fatigues and annoyances you must have had 
in playing the heroine and coming here.” 

“Ah! I am not so gay and happy as I seem. It is 


ri2 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


gladness at seeing you again, and finding you so well, that 
brightens me up. Being a heroine is hard work for me. 
I have only tried to be one for some days, and it has made 
me dull, — even sad, at times. Trig. And I am getting 
^very tired of it, and want you to help me. You must do 
all the fighting, all the heroic things, while I stay behind 
and be general. So you will run all the risks, perform all 
the rough labor, and I shall have all the credit. It is so 
comfortable and charming to feel that you are to take all 
this trouble off my shoulders and care for me now.^’ 

But you do not tell what you wish me to do.’* 

I will, though, but not why I wish you to do it ; that 
is, perhaps I shall not ; we will see. Yet that makes no 
difference. You are to obey me in any case, you know. 
Obedience, blind obedience, and discipline.” 

Very well. Let me hear the orders.” 

You must tell me how to find some prisoners ” 

What ! A rescue ?’ ’ 

Well, suppose it is?”- 

‘‘I cannot help you in anything of that kind, sis. 
Seriously, you must not order me to do anything disloyal 
or unsoldierly. I know you would not, consciously; but 
women have such queer notions sometimes.” 

^‘Oh, la, la! How absurd you are! Ido not want 
you to do what is disloyal. I only wish you to help 
find some prisoners, — for an honorable purpose, even ac- 
cording to your notions.” 

Who are they?” 

Colonel Allerton and Captain Bulldon ” 

Taken some weeks ago in a skirmish at ?” 

Yes, so it was stated.” 

Then you ought to know more of them than I, for 
they effected their escape from the guard while detained 
on their way to the prison-camp, and got back safely 


BROTHER AND SISTER. 


across the lines. So it was reported by the officer who 
had them in charge.” 

‘ ‘ What ! Escaped ?’ ' 

Yes. They tied the officer, made one of the soldiers 
who were guarding them drunk, overpowered and bound 
the other, and took themselves olf, notwithstanding that 
one of them was supposed, at the time, to be entirely dis- 
abled by his wounds.” 

‘^But we heard nothing of that, or of them. And 
such a feat would have been talked of publicly had it 
been successfully accomplished.” 

^‘Part of it was successfully accomplished, no doubt of 
that. But of course I do not know whether they were 

lucky enough to get back to their friends Stop a 

minute, though, — stop a minute! That is it! — How 
stupid I have been ! That explains it all!” 

What explains it all ? All what ?’ * 

Were you acquainted with them?” 

I have seen them.” 

‘^And can describe them?” 

‘^Oh, yes.” 

Do so, carefully.” 

Minutely?” 

‘^As well as you can.” 

Colonel Allerton is, I should think, about five feet 
ten inches in height, and well proportioned. His hair 
and eyes are very dark, and would pass for black. He 
wears, or did wear, a full, but not heavy, beard. His nose 
is a little aquiline, his complexion brown. Will that do?” 

Perfectly. I think I know him. But let us have the 
description of his friend.” 

How do you know he is his friend?” 

‘‘Well, his companion, then, or comrade, or fellow- 
prisoner, or what you will.” 

10* 


WILL IT END? 


I14 

‘^Captain Bulldon is a little taller than Colonel Aller- 
ton, broad-shouldered, muscular, blue eyes, fresh com- 
plexion, very long whiskers, which, like his moustache 
and hair, are light auburn, features very regular, of the 
Grecian type, carriage erect and spirited. Both are very 
handsome men, according to their respective styles, and 
would be remarked anywhere. Is that definite enough ?’** 
Quite. I know them both; at least, I think I do. 
Two tricksters.” 

Oh, you do not know them at all !” 

I am very sure I do. They have been staying at the 
same house with me, passing themselves off, under assumed 

names, as officers of our army ” 

Under what names ?” 

‘‘The dark one called himself Colonel Hamilton.” 

“And the other?” 

“ Captain Overdon.” 

“Well?” 

“And they did it very cleverly, I must say; although I 
have been so busy that I have seen very little of them. 
They remained there till yesterday, accepting and enjoy- 
ing the kindest hospitality, when they suddenly left, taking 
away, as I have every reason to believe, some plans and 
designs which I had made, and which they could not 
have got at without entering my room surreptitiously, — 
burglariously, I might say.” 

“They cannot be the men I mean. Where did they go ?’ ' 

“ To the devil, I trust. Their purpose was, clearly, to 
escape and rejoin their forces, which they may have done ; 
but I hope not.” 

At this moment the attention of brother and sister was 
attracted by the sound of horses’ feet, and, looking up, 
Captain Trangolar saw Miss Marion, Miss Mabie, and 
Cass in the highway, coming towards the cottage. Much 


FRIENDS MEET. 


I15 


surprised, he went to the roadside, to greet the ladies and 
learn if any mishap was the cause of their ride. Marion 
appeared no less pleased than astonished to see this good 
friend there, and eagerly pulled up her horse. 

Oh, captain,’^ said she, I wanted so much to see you ! 
I sent for you this morning, but you were already gone.’* 

Has anything happened ?’ ’ asked he. Can I do any- 

thing for you now?” 

Yes, something terrible has happened, and I do not 
know what to do. After you left. Colonel Clappergong 
received word that Colonel Hamilton and Captain Over- 
don had been taken, and certain papers found which 
proved them to be spies. So he said. They are to be 
tried by court-martial this very day, and he says they 
must be convicted and executed. What can I do?” 

What do you wish to do, my dear lady?” 

‘‘Wish to do? Why, to prevent this villainy. They 
are no more spies than you are. Captain Trangolar. It is 
all a nefarious scheme of that man Clappergong. At least, 
I think so; but I cannot yet prove it, and the time is 
short. What am I to do?” 

“This kindly solicitude for your enemies is only what 
your friends would expect from your good heart. Miss 
Marion, whose generous impulses have, if you will allojv 
me to say so, blinded your judgment. I have some reason 
to think that those gentlemen did not enter our lines as 
spies, but that, once within, they found the opportunity 
to follow that calling, and did not let it slip.” 

“But I know you are all wrong, only I do not know 
how to prove it.” 

“ What do you propose to do ? Where were you going, 
if I may ask without seeming too bold ?’ ’ 

“I am going to my father.” 

“But he cannot help you, my good friend.” 


ii6 * 


JI01V WILL IT END? 


Will he have nothing to say about it?’^ 

Oh, yes. He will have to approve the finding and the 
sentence of the court, probably. But with its action and 
deliberations he will have nothing to do.’^ 

‘‘Then he must not approve the sentence.’’ 

“ My poor child, — excuse me, — you do not know your 
own father, and will but give him additional pain in the 
discharge of his duty, from which no considerations for 
himself or his family can turn him.” 

“ But if it can be shown that they are not guilty ?” 

“Nobody will be more gratified than he, unless it be 
myself, on your account. Did you hear where the court 
was to be convened?” 

“Yes. At the fort.” 

“But your father is not there.” 

“ Had he been there I should not be here.” 

A messenger galloped up and delivered a sealed en- 
velope to Captain Trangolar, who hastily opened and 
read it. 

“I am wrong,” he said. “This is an order from the 
general, your father, for me to meet him at the fort, 
where he will be to-day. If you like, we will go there 
together. But first let me speak to this lady, who is my 
lister.” And he retired to the bench on which Margue- 
rite had remained seated. 

In a few words Captain Trangolar informed his sister 
that Colonel Hamilton and Captain Overdon, whom he 
suspected to be the persons that she wished to find, had 
been retaken and brought to the fort. He did not men- 
tion, nor, indeed, had Marion told him, that the captain 
was wounded ; nor did he say that they were to be tried 
for their lives. 

Marguerite went at once to tell Sister Mary what she had 
learned, and, bringing her from the cottage, presented her 


FRIENDS MEET, 


I.17 

brother. Trangolar suggested that, if the ladies wished 
to make sure whether the captured officers were the men 
they sought, it would be well for them to accompany him 
to the fort ; a suggestion with which they agreed, after a 
little discussion, — the more readily as neighbors were be- 
ginning to arrive at the cottage, and their services there 
were no longer needed. But how were they to travel ? 
This was, at first, a perplexing question. Cass, however, 
having been called into the council, said that if they 
could find a vehicle and a harness for his horse, he could, 
with his mistress’s consent, drive the ladies wherever they 
wished to go. He was sent to search the premises, and 
soon returned to announce that he had found a wagon 
and harness \ and permission was cheerfully granted by 
Ernest for the party to make such use of them as might 
best suit their convenience. So the servant harnessed his 
horse to the carriage ; Sisters Mary and Marguerite, hav- 
ing first taken a kind leave of the mourners, seated them- 
selves in it ; Cass took a place in front of them, to drive; 
Captain Trangolar, mounting his horse, placed himself by 
Marion’s side, and, with her, leading the way, they all set 
out for their new destination, each too much occupied 
with thoughts, anxieties, and reflections to be disposed 
for conversation. 

They were willing to leave Miss Mabie behind, since 
Marion did not now need her company ; and she was con- 
tented to remain, drawn to the place, as she was, by that 
indefinable attraction which many persons of her age and 
sex feel when near the spot where a death, especially if it 
be sudden or tragical, has recently taken place. 


n8 


HOJV WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER XV. 

FOREBODINGS. 

After their capture the prisoners, as has been intimated, 
were taken to the fort, — Allerton strictly guarded, and Bull- 
don, who remained insensible, as tenderly as the means 
of conveyance would permit. On reaching the post, a 
surgeon was at once called, who examined the captain^s 
injuries, and found that his skull had been grazed by a 
bullet, but not fractured, and stated that the wound was 
not necessarily mortal, nor even very serious, unless the 
brain had been contused by the blow. Restoratives were 
used, and consciousness gradually returned. Medicines 
and careful treatment were prescribed for the patient, 
whom Allerton watched over with the utmost solicitude 
and to all whose wants he insisted on administering. They 
were placed in a comfortable room at the fort, and left 
together, guards having been stationed for their safe- 
keeping. 

‘‘I say. Ally,** muttered Bulldon, from his cot, ^^why 
did you let that blasted doctor bring me to? I might 
have slipped off quietly, and now, perhaps, I shall make a 
row about it. Those fellows have no heart in such a case.** 
Possibly it might have been better so, my boy, — ^who 
knows? But, then, he did not ask my consent. You see, 
it is no affair of ours, as we were not consulted. So all 
you have to do is to keep still,** answered Allerton. 

Still ! Of course. I haven* t moved since I can re- 
member. But I suppose I may talk ?* * 

Not with the ‘ blasted doctor’s* permission, nor with 
mine either.** 


FOREBODINGS. 


119 

^^Now, look here, Allerton. You are a deuced good 
fellow, the best friend I ever had, — that is, you come 
nearest my heart, — and you are made of such stuff as the 
gods put into men when they want to do their best work. 
Therefore I rely on you not to utter any nonsense now, 
for I am about rather a serious business. I am not going 
to be coddled and nursed in order to be put into a cage 
like a wild beast or set up for a mark to be fired at. I 
have had my last shot, and there is no use in making a fuss 
about it. So let us talk while we may, and act like two 
Christians, who are not afraid.” 

am half inclined to agree with you. If being put 

in a cage were the worst ” 

‘^Ay, that is it. To continue a purposeless life, with- 
out hope of erasing the stigma placed on me at my birth, 
or of again having faith in those who, when trusted, are 
able to incite to the noblest efforts, and for one of whom 

I would have striven to take all prizes ” 

‘^The shock which that wound gave to your nervous 
system has depressed your spirits. The future would look 
more bright to you ” 

‘^Not at all. That shot only cleared away the mists 
which made rainbows possible, and I see the future in its 
true aspect, — myself as I am. We often deceive our- 
selves by affecting to believe what we do not. I am tired 
of it, — tired of shams.” ^ 

‘^Well, try to be quiet now, my dear fellow. The 
doctor said you must remain undisturbed and unexcited. 
Try to sleep a little.” 

^‘Excuse me, Allerton, but I hav^ no inclination to 
sleep, and as little to be silent. I shall have a long slum- 
ber presently. If I choose to talk myself to death, how 
can it concern that hypocrite of a doctor, who has killed 
more people with one of his drugs in a year than I have 


120 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


in my life, with all the means at my disposal? But I do 
not intend to commit suicide, by talking, or in any other 
way. The work of ending an aimless career has been 
done for me, and satisfactorily; only it is intolerable to 
have been chased into a corner and shot like a deer.^^ 
Better than to be snared and choked like a rabbit.’^ 
How choked?’* 

‘‘ Why, — with bad air in some prison.” Then to him- 
self Allerton added, ‘‘He knows nothing of it yet, and 
I will not tell him. He will learn it soon enough, if he 
live ; and, if he do not, let him die in ignorance of this. 
It will be better so.” 

“Do not misunderstand me,” said Bulldon. “lam 
not complaining, nor do I intend to go out of the world 
scolding. I am only telling you why I feel satisfied with 
my fate, or, at any rate, try so to feel, except as to the 
ignominious manner in which its final decree was made 
known. But I believe, Allerton, that He who directs all 
things makes no mistakes, and so I am sure that every- 
thing inevitable is right. And, if anybody should ever 
be friendly enough to ask you about me, you can tell 
them what I have said.” 

Bulldon was thinking of his mother with inexpressible 
longing, and questioning himself whether she would ever 
seek to know anything of his career and end. 

“You will tell them yourself, if you wish, — that is, your 
wound is not so serious as you think. The surgeon (and 
he appears skillful) said that, unless your brain had re- 
ceived an injury greater than was probable from the 
appearance of the Murt, you would very soon be on your 
feet again.” 

“I will not dispute the matter with him. We may 
both enjoy our own opinions. And, in spite of his, 
mine remains unchanged. But there is one thing which 


FOREBODINGS, 


I2I 


has escaped me, and of which you do not seem to think. 
We were taken within the enemy^s lines, disguised in their 
uniform. Do you think these fellows will miss the chance 
to make out that we are spies, or that the patriotic Clap- 
pergong will lose such an opportunity to signalize his 
zeal and glut his mean vengeance? No. I am better 
off as I am; better off than you are. Ally. The time 
has come, and I shall ask you to do me a favor, my good 
friend.’* 

‘‘Anything in the world that I can do for you shall be 
done most gladly.” 

“You remember — it was only yesterday — that I told 
you something of my personal history, and showed you 
a letter from my poor mother, as yet unread?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“It is time to read that letter. I do not feel quite 
equal to the effort, and must ask you to do it for me.” 

“ Most willingly, if you insist. But in any event, 
whatever its contents, it can but be exciting, perhaps 
painful, to you. Would it not be more judicious to put 
off the reading, and for you to try and sleep first, in order 
to restore your strength somewhat ?’ * 

“ No. It must be read now, or I may never know my 
mother’s last words to me. You cannot tell how I long 
for her now ; and it would be such a consolation to hear 
what she says to me in that- letter. I should almost feel 
that she was by my side. So do not make any more 
objections and cause me to weary myself with argu- 
ments, but take the letter at once from my neck, here, 
and read it.” 

Thinking it inexpedient to urge his views further, Aller- 
ton took the letter from his friend’s bosom, opened it, 
cast his eyes over the first page to fainiliarize himself a 
little with the writing, and then read as follows ; 


122 


HOJV WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER XVL 

THE LETTER — ALL FOR LOVE. 

dear Son, my only Child, — I know your love, 
and how sacred your mother’s wishes have always been to 
you. I know that when you shall read these words you 
will be on the verge of that world where the best need all 
the excuses that infinite charity can urge. Your heart, 
penetrated, as never before, with a sense of human weak- 
ness and error, will seek, more than ever, to find only 
justification for the acts of her who bore you. And if 
your judgment must condemn her, think that now, for the 
first and last time in life, she is able to open her heart to 
her only child, for a long time the dearest object of hei 
affection, and still the dearest after that Being to whom, 
alone, worship is due, — think of this, and say whether 
she has not made some atonement. Not to you, my poor 
boy, — no atonement to you, my darling child. But judge 
how far it was possible for her, after having taken the first 
false step, to have acted differently ; and know that her 
heart has suffered and bled, as only a mother’s can, while 
she has been forced to wrong you. Read here her sad 
story ; forgive her while yet you have life ; and mingle 
with your last prayers, uttered when so near the Divine 
presence, one that your mother’s soul may find forgive- 
ness and repose.” 

Oh, my poor mother !” moaned Bulldon. 

At a bali, when I was in my seventeenth year, I first 
saw your father. He was then traveling in my native 
country, and was there distinguished both as a stranger 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR LOVE. 


123 

and as a man of high rank. Doubtless his remarkable 
personal beauty (you are very like him, my son) and his 
illustrious social position excited a large part of the ad- 
miration felt and often manifested for him by the ladies, 
and particularly by young girls, who were then my 
friends and acquaintances. His manners were as pleasing 
as his person ; and his voice, which was both deep and 
melodious, moved me strangely, even from the time when 
I first heard it. He possessed the kind of information 
and accomplishments which would best make him a wel- 
come companion to a young woman ever desirous of 
knowledge, and whose fancy saw the halo of noble deeds 
and of beautiful things around a noble man whose family 
had achieved them, or who himself had seen them. I had 
the fatal gift of beauty, and, what is not seldom equally 
fatal, an active and powerful imagination. Your father 
selected me, almost immediately, as the object of especial 
attentions. Such distinction was intoxicating to my 
young vanity, but not to my vanity only. My heart 
was irresistibly drawn to one who appeared all tender- 
ness, all bravery, all manliness, all royalty, and who 
seemed to find in me alone the counterpart of these great 
qualities. Before he spoke of affection, I loved him with 
an absorbing, all-devoting love. And, when he told me 
that I was to him the dearest of all beings, and that, 
without my love, life would be for him a desert, I lay on 
his breast speechless for very ecstasy. To my innocent 
youth love meant but one thing, — marriage and constant 
companionship and union. I could not, at first, under- 
stand his intimations that other love was possible ; and 
when at length I did, my protest against them was so 
emphatic as to prevent their repetition. Then he talked 
to me of marriage, but marriage in secret, unknown even 
to my father and mother, and explained to me the neces- 


124 


JIOW WILL IT EUD? 


sity for this secrecy by saying that, through a family ar- 
rangement, he had been betrothed to a lady, whom he 
did not love, in his own country ; that his future must 
depend entirely upon his seeming acquiescence in this 
arrangement, at least during his father’s life, who had 
set his heart on the match, and would cut him off if it 
were known that he had married another person. He 
said it would only be necessary to keep our wedlock con- 
cealed until the death of his father, which must, in the 
natural course of events, soon occur ; that then he should 
succeed to the inheritance, and, once in possession, our 
lawful union should be declared. I could not refuse to 
wed him. I had not skill to analyze his statements, nor 
depth of intellect to sound his arguments, nor strength or 
judgment to resist his pleading and my love ; but I begged 
that my father and mother, or at least my mother, might 
be admitted to the secret. This proposition he firmly, 
almost sternly, opposed, and gave reasons for his objec- 
tions which, if I could not see them to be forcible, I could 
not, at any rate, answer. Finally, after some days of in- 
tense suffering, from the conflict of diverse affections, and, 
as I fondly thought, of duties also, I consented to his 
plan. This was for me to leave my father’s house, under 
the pretext of going to pass a week with one of my friends 
who lived in the city, an easy day’s journey from our 
country residence, and where we were little known. Your 
father, who had taught me to call him Walter, was to meet 
me there, and take me to the house of an obscure clergy- 
man, unknown to us, as were we to him. With such evi- 
dent pain did I prepare to take my departure and bid my 
parents good-by, that they tenderly urged me to defer my 
visit. But I assured them I was very well, only a little 
nervous at the thought of leaving them and traveling 
alone. My father told me that, if I would wait a couple 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR LOVE. 


125 

of days, he could go with me ; but I said it would disap- 
point my friend, and persisted. 

When I reached the city I found Walter waiting for me 
at the stage-office with a carriage, into which he handed 
me, and followed, first giving some directions to the 
coachman. After driving some time, during which, ter- 
rified at the step I was about to take, I had wept, trem- 
bling, upon Walter’s breast, who vainly tried to comfort 
me, the carriage stopped. I found courage to look from 
the window, and saw that we were in front of a small 
hotel. ‘This is not a clergyman’s house !’ I exclaimed. 
‘Oh, Walter, whither have you taken me ?’ ‘Do not be 
alarmed, darling,’ he replied. ‘ Can you not trust me?’ 
‘Have I not trusted you?’ I asked. ‘Too much to hesi- 
tate now,’ said he. It was already evening, and the gath- 
ering darkness added to my terror. ‘ What are you going 
to do ?’ I demanded, withdrawing myself from his arm. 
which was about me. ‘ What do you fear ?’ returned he. 
‘It is growing late. We can pass the night here, and to- 
morrow we will find the clergyman, and everything shall 
be as you wish. ’ ‘ Never ! ’ I cried, making a movement 

to open the door of the carriage. ‘ Drive on, coachman,’ 
he commanded from the window, — ‘anywhere,’ fearing 
to attract more particularly the attention of the hotel -ser- 
vants, who were waiting for us to alight. The carriage 
rolled on, and, with many caresses and a thousand ex- 
pressions of tenderness and love, Walter sought to dispel 
my fears and calm my agitation. ‘You have deceived 
me,’ I sobbed, feebly repelling his proffered embraces. 

‘ Take me back, oh, take me back !’ ‘ That is impossible, 

my child,’ said he. ‘ Whither would you go ?’ ‘ To my 

father,’ I cried; ‘take me to my father. Let me go 
home.’ ‘That cannot be,’ answered he. ‘There is no 
way of reaching your home to-night. Why will you be so 


126 


WILL IT END? 


foolish ? What frightens you ? Have you no confidence 
in me ? Can I not take care of you ? There, there ! be 
reasonable/ For a few minutes I remained silent, trying 
to comprehend my exact situation. Then I said to him, 
‘ You know I consented to come here but for one purpose, 
and that was to become your wife. If you have changed 
your mind, if you no longer love me, take me to the 
house of my friend. You know where she lives. Take 
me there at once.^ ‘No longer love you, my angel 
cried he. ‘Why, I love you more than ever, and to no 
friend living will I give you up.’ ‘But you must,’ I re- 
plied. ‘ I will go to her.’ ‘ What if I will not let you?’ 
asked he. ‘You cannot hinder me,’ I replied. ‘I will 
leave the carriage.’ ‘Oh, I can prevent that,’ said he. 

‘ Then I will call for assistance, ’ returned I ; and again I 
made a movement to open the door of the carriage. ‘ My 
darling Gertrude,’ said he, taking my hand with gentle 
force, ‘listen to me for one moment. I am sorry I have 
so distressed you. It was cruel on my part. I did not 
intend that you should alight at the hotel. I wished 
to stop there myself, for a moment, on our way to the 
clergyman’s house. When, however, you exhibited such 
alarm, I thought I would put your confidence in me to a 
severe test. Had you consented to do as I proposed, can 
you think for an instant that I would have permitted you, 
my own wife, as you are so soon to be, to do anything 
that might in any way compromise you? Sweetheart, 
such a thought never entered my head seriously. And, as 
I said, I love you, if possible, ten times more than ever 
for the spirit and correct feeling you have shown. Will 
you forgive me, dear one ? There, put your head on my 
breast again, darling, and be sure no thought or purpose 
is there which your own pure heart would not approve.’ 
Reassured and consoled by what he said, I suffered 


THE lETTER—ALL FOR LOVE. 


127 


him again to encircle me with his arms, and rested my 
head on his shoulder with renewed and strengthened faith 
and confidence in him. For some time no word was 
spoken by either of us, and the carriage moved slowly for- 
ward. Where are we going now ?’ I ventured to ask, at 
length. ‘ Oh, I had forgotten to give the order, ^ said he. ‘ I 
was so happy. ’ Then, putting his head out of the window, 
he said something to the coachman, who at once turned 
his horses’ heads and drove rapidly in another direction. 
In a short time we stopped before a small house in a 
narrow street, and got out of the carriage. Walter was 
obliged almost to carry me up the steps of the house, so 
weak was I from the emotions which I felt. We were led 
to a small and neat but poorly-furnished parlor, where 
we were soon joined by a man of a pale but benign 
countenance, in the garb of a clergyman. Walter briefly 
told him our errand. He left the room, and presently 
returned with two women, plainly yet carefully dressed, 
whom he presented to us as his wife and his wife’s sister, 
who were to act as witnesses of the ceremony. The rite 
was soon performed ; the certificate of marriage, to which 
the names of the witnesses were also affixed, was signed 
and given to Walter; and we left the house. I could not 
realize what was taking place. It was all like a dream to me. 
When, however, we were again in the carriage, and Wal- 
ter, tenderly embracing me, called me his own dear wife, 
I forgot all my fears and doubts in the sweet assurance 
conveyed by those words.” 

‘‘Stop, — stop one moment!” cried Bulldon. “Oh, 
mother, my own darling mother, how I have wronged 
you !” And the poor fellow gave vent to his overcharged 
heart in a violent fit of weeping. 


128 


HOW WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE LETTER, CONTINUED — CLEAVING. 

When Bulldon^s outburst of feeling had subsided, he 
suddenly exclaimed, as if the thought had just come to 
him, — 

Then I am no bastard, after all 

‘‘So it would seem,*^ said his friend; who refrained, 
however, from expressing the suspicion which was upper- 
most in his mind, that the marriage, of which he had 
just read, was a sham. 

“ Go on, please,’^ urged Bulldon. “I can bear any- 
thing now.’’ 

After giving the invalid a scrutinizing look, Allerton 
resumed the perusal of the letter : 

“We remained four days in the city, and I was very, 
very happy. I felt contented with the present, and gave 
no thoughts to the past or to the future. We were con- 
stantly together, chiefly in our quiet apartments at an inn. 
Walter appeared to be the tenderest of lovers, and the 
best of men. Towards evening on the fourth day, the 
servant brought word that a person desired to see him in 
the office of the hotel, and he left me for a few minutes. 
Returning shortly, he handed me an open letter, saying, 

‘ Read that, my love,’ and, turning away, walked to the 
window. I took the letter with feelings of apprehension 
and vague terror which I cannot describe, and read it 
hastily. The person who had brought this letter was 
Walter’s servant, and, according to instructions from his 


THE LETTER— CLEAVING. 


129 


master, had come at once to deliver it, together with other 
correspondence, received by the last mail, at Walter’s 
address in the country. This letter told him of the dan- 
gerous illness of his father, and adjured him to come 
back to his native land at once. After reading, I gazed 
at the message in a kind of stupor. Walter remained at 
the window with his back towards me. I felt that the 
summons was a decree of almost instant and indefinite 
separation. I could take it in no other light ; for that he 
would hesitate to obey the call, or that I could accom- 
pany him, never occurred to me as possible. I was to be 
with my parents again at the end of a week. That seemed 
to me a fixed fact, as much as if it were already accom- 
plished. I neither spoke nor moved. A kind of insen- 
sibility appeared to be creeping over me, when Walter, 
whose attention was, doubtless, attracted by my silence, 
turned round. Alarmed by my paleness and strange 
tranquillity, he ran to me, took me in his arms, called me 
by many terms of endearment, covering my lips, eyes, 
cheeks, brow, and hands with kisses, and begging me to 
speak to him. My reply was an uncontrollable burst of 
weeping. He did not attempt to restrain this violent 
outbreak of a suddenly overcharged heart ; but, seating 
himself by me, and drawing me to him, he silently let me 
sob upon his breast, bending his head from time to time 
to kiss my hair and forehead. 

At length I became calmer, but he made no remark. 
He only kissed away my tears and called me by endear- 
ing names. I could not entirely dry my eyes. ^ What 
will become of me ?’ I sobbed. ^ You will be very happy, 

I trust, darling,’ said he, tenderly. ‘What are you going 
to do ?’ I asked, almost daring to hope from his answer 
that he would not leave me. ‘ Going to do, dearest ?’ 
returned he. ‘ Go back to my father, of course.’ ‘And 


130 


HOW WILL IT END? 


leave me?’ I cried, with a fresh outburst of weeping. 
^Oh, you cannot be so cruel!’ ^ No, my love,’ said he, 
do not intend to leave you.’ ^And yet you are going 
away,’ I answered, bewildered, and looking at him earn- 
estly through my tears. ^ Yes,’ returned he, ^but I shall 
not leave you.’ ‘ How can that be ?’ I asked, really per- 
plexed, for it had not yet occurred to me that I could go 
with him. ‘We will go together,’ he replied, softly. 
‘Go together?’ I repeated. ‘Yes, sweet one, you will 
accompany me. I cannot part from you.’ And he drew 
me closer to him. ‘And leave my father and mother!’ 
I exclaimed. ‘Yes, my dear wife,’ he said, looking at 
me very intently, ‘ to follow your husband.’ ‘ But when ?’ 
I asked. ‘We shall leave here to-night,’ he answered, 
gently. ‘ Impossible !’ I cried. ‘ I must first see my father 
and mother, and tell them all. ’ ‘ That cannot be, my 

love,’ said he, calmly. ‘But I must see them,’ I urged. 
‘ There will not be time,’ replied he. ‘ I shall have to go 
from here this evening, in order to take the next ship. 
Otherwise I shall be delayed a week, it may be two.’ 
‘But this is a very short time,’ I pleaded. ‘Too much 
for me to lose,’ he answered. ‘What!’ said I, ‘you will 
not let me even say good-by to my parents ?’ ‘ I am very 
sorry, darling, but there is no help for it. ’ He spoke very 
softly, yet firmly. ‘ But I cannot quit them so,’ I asserted. 
‘It is very hard, I know,’ he responded. ‘And I will 
not !’ I exclaimed. ‘Do not say that, dearest!’ cried he, 
passionately, — ‘ do not say that, for it is to say that you no 
longer love me, and that you wish to part from me. ’ ‘ How 
cruel you are, Walter!’ I retorted. ‘ Think what you ask 
of me.’ ‘ I know I ask much,’ he replied, ‘ yet it is only 
that the wife should not desert her husbandry’ ‘ What will 
they think of me?’ I questioned. ‘All will soon be ex- 
plained to them,’ he answered. ‘But they will suffer so 


THE LE TTER—CLEA VING. 1 3 1 

much/ I pleaded. ‘And shall not I suffer if you abandon 
me ?’ he asked, reproachfully. ‘ Oh, I will not abandon 
you, dearest Walter !’ I protested; ‘only let me go and 
see them once more, and bid them farewell.’ ‘Should 
you do that,’ said he, ‘ I must let you stay behind.’ ‘ No, 
you could wait for me,’ I urged. ‘That I cannot, my 
dear. It is useless to insist,’ he replied, firmly. ‘Then 
you may go without me ! ’ cried I, almost angrily. ‘ My 
darling,’ said he, with the utmost tenderness, ‘do you 
know what you are saying? Do you mean that you 
will permit me to go away without you, my own precious 
wife ? Have you already so far ceased to love me that 
you can be happy when we are separated ? Have you 
already discovered that you love your family better than 
you love me ? Then, my own love, it is well that I should 
depart alone, and seek to forget you. And know this, 
dearest, that if you persist in your determination, I must 
quit you, and quit you forever. For I could never again 
be sufficiently convinced of your love, if you now abandon 
me, to dare trust my happiness in your keeping. ’ ‘ Oh, 

Walter,’ I exclaimed, clinging to him in terror, ‘do not 
talk so ! I will never leave you.’ ‘Then, darling, under- 
stand this,’ he answered, in tones tender but decided, 
‘ that I must go to my father at once ; that I must go 
from here this very evening ; and that you must go with 
me, or we shall be forever separated. Will you go?’ ‘If 
it must be so, Walter, I submit,’ I replied; ‘for I cannot 
lose you, nor would I cause you a moment’s pain. But I 
so want to see my father and mother, if it could be.’ ‘I 
know, love, — I know,’ said he; ‘but circumstances make 
it impossible. You can, however, write to them.’ ‘Oh, 
what will I del’ I exclaimed, experiencing a momentary 
feeling of relief. ‘And you will go with me willingly, 
darling?’ he asked. ‘Oh, Walter, you know I am all 


132 


no tv WILL IT END? 


yours !’ I replied. ^ Write your letter, then, while I make 
ready for our journey,’ said he, kissing me tenderly. And 
then he left the room. 

^‘Not till seated, with pen in hand and paper before 
me, did I realize how difficult was the task of writing a 
farewell letter to my parents in the situation where I found 
myself placed. What could I say to them ? How could 
I bid them good-by without telling them that I was going 
far away? How tell them I was going far away, without 
telling them whither? How tell them whither, without 
telling them wherefore ? How tell them wherefore, with- 
out betraying our secret and Walter’s confidence? If I 
were to say only that I was going a long way from 
them, to be, perhaps, a long time absent, what dreadful 
surmises would be theirs ! And what more could I say 
to them and not break faith with him whose love was 
so much dearer to me than their own ? Again and 
again did I commence my letter, but could not proceed 
with it. My tears were flowing fast, and my suffering was 
great. At length I succeeded in writing the words which 
follow : 

^My dear Father and Mother, — My heart is almost 
breaking ; for I must depart further from my dear home 
without seeing you again ; without bidding you good-by, 
except in this letter. Oh, my beloved parents, forgive 
me ! I cannot tell you where I am going, nor with whom. 
Only I can say that I go willingly and hopefully. I shall 
be safe, and, but for this cruel separation from you, happy. 
Before very, very long I shall, I trust, be able to write and 
tell you how to address me, which I cannot now do. May 
God soften for you the blow, which I Uius deal with 
averted eyes and bleeding heart ; bless and reward you 
for all your goodness and affection ; help you to forgive. 


THE LETTER— CLEAVING. 


133 

and, at no very distant day, restore to your embraces, 
your loving and distracted daughter, 

‘‘ ‘ Gertrude.’ 

‘‘When Walter came back, I showed him what I had 
written. ‘That will do,’ said he. ‘My poor child, 
how much pain this costs you ! But all will be explained 
by-and-by, and you shall have nothing to regret.’ 

“We set out that evening, reached the port in time, 
and embarked. 

“As the vessel sped on her way, and the shores and hills 
faded from my view, a woeful feeling of desolation seized 
me, and a mournful presentiment, since so sadly realized, 
that I should never see my native country and my family 
again. Not all my love for Walter, nor all his tenderness 
to me, could dissipate the grief that oppressed me, or 
make me strong to resist it successfully. The voyage was 
marked by no extraordinary occurrence. For Walter’s 
sake I tried to be cheerful, and he thanked me, in many 
ways, for the effort. The ship reached her destination in 
safety, and we went to the city nearest the lordly resi- 
dence of his family. There we took quiet, retired, yet 
sufficiently elegant apartments ; and, as soon as he could 
leave me comfortably installed, Walter went to his father’s 
house. He had the happiness to find that the attack had 
not proved mortal, and that the invalid, although not 
restored to health, was considered out of present danger. 

“ Notwithstanding I had so deep and fearful an interest 
in my father-in-law’s death, I could but rejoice when 
Walter brought me this good news. 

“ Our life glided on tranquilly. I knew no one, and had 
no friend or associate but my husband. I was, or fancied 
myself, very happy for a time. I had written again to 
my parents, apprising them of my good health, and that 


12 


134 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


I was happy, save for the fact and the manner of my sep- 
aration from them ; again asking their forgiveness, and 
telling them how they might address a letter so that it 
would safely reach my hands. By Walter’s direction, I 
did not name my own place of residence, but instructed 
them to send their letters to the care of a solicitor of 
whom my husband was a client, through whom my own 
letters were given to the post. 

Buoyed by the hope of receiving an affectionate answer 
from my tender parents, and all the news from my dear 
home, although often tormented with harrowing doubts, 
I was generally cheerful, sometimes joyful. For had I 
not Walter with me, and all to myself? We saw no com- 
pany. Our only entertainment, other than the society of 
each other, with reading and music, was an occasional 
visit to some gallery or place of amusement. There I 
attracted much attention, as I could not but observe, and 
Walter seemed proud of it. At length the time within 
which I had dared to expect a letter from home elapsed, 
and no message came. I still, hoped against hope, and 
my husband tried to comfort and encourage me by sug- 
gesting many accidental causes of delay. By-and-by, 
however, all such suggestions ceased to have any force, 
and the only ground of hope which remained to me was 
the possibility that my letter had never reached the hands 
for which it was designed. 

Grasping all the solace which the knowledge of such a 
possibility could offer, I wrote a second time a petition, 
more penitent, more supplicating than the former. But 
vainly did I wait and watch for a response, and at length I 
was forced to admit the terrible certainty that my father 
and mother had abandoned me, had cast me off, and that 
I was more wretched than any orphan. Still, I wrote again 
and again ; but no answer ever came back. In despera- 


THE LETTER— CLEAVING, 


135 


tion, and with a breaking heart, I addressed a letter to 
my only brother, with whom I felt very little acquainted, 
since he had been, most of the time for several years, 
away from home, at school and college. But no reply 
was ever received. 

Walter seemed to feel my grief deeply, and spared no 
pains to console me. But for a time even his efforts were 
unavailing. I would not be comforted. I think that, 
after awhile, my persistent sorrow wearied him; perhaps 
some upbraiding words escaped my lips. At any rate, he 
felt my conduct as a reproach. He became less tender, 
almost imperceptibly at first. He began to be more away 
from me. His father’s health, which had lately become 
more infirm, was an excuse, perhaps the entire reason, for 
his increasing absence from my side. 

At length you, my child, were born. You were a great 
comfort, — you always have been a great comfort to me, 
my son.” 

Thank God for that !” interrupted Bulldon, who was 
intently listening, with suffused eyes. 

Allerton read on again : 

‘‘Your father did not appear so delighted at your birth 
as I had expected. He seemed indifferent to you, and, 
as I thought, careless of me. I believe I did reproach 
him for this.” 

“I am fairly into the world, at any rate,” once more 
broke in Bulldon. “Wait awhile, and let me look round 
a little. I want to realize my situation.” 


136 


WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE LETTER, CONTINUED — ALL FOR MONEY. 

After a pause, in which, having carefully noted his 
friend, Allerton was pleased to see no signs of injury from 
the excitement caused by the reading of this letter, he 
went on : 

‘‘Walter was less and less with me. His increasing 
absences pained me exceedingly; yet I tried not to com- 
plain, while I knew that his father^s health was constantly, 
but slowly, declining. I had lately suffered too much 
remorse because of my own undutifulness, to wish him 
to fail in any point of tenderness, reverence, or devotion 
to his father. But I could not be so cheerful habitually 
as I was ; and my ill-concealed sadness, doubtless, tended 
to render my society less agreeable to him than it had 
been. Perhaps, too, at times my welcome was not so 
warm or frank as formerly ; perhaps I was silent and 
morose. For I suspected that he might have been more 
with me; that occupations other than attending on 
his father kept him from me. His apparent indifference 
to you, whose childish acts and budding intelligence 
were, to me, always new and charming, I could not 
understand or forget. He treated you with the passing 
notice bestowed by young men on the child of a friend, 
rather than with the affection of a parent. 

“When you were a little more than four years old, his 
father died. I could not mourn deeply for a father-in- 
law whom I had never seen, and I could not but feel that 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR MONEY, 


137 


the terrible trial through which I had been passing was, 
or would now very soon be, at an end. After all the 
funeral rites were performed I had fondly hoped that 
Walter would be with me again, as of old. But in this I 
was disappointed. I saw less of him even than before. 
When I asked him, as gently and affectionately as I could, 
— it may have been reproachfully and somewhat severely, 
in spite of me, — the reason of this, he said that his time 
was very much occupied with affairs pertaining to the set- 
tlement of the estate and inheritance. So passed the time 
till a year had elapsed since his father’s death. In all 
that period, though every moment seemed to me a month’s 
delay, I had spoken not one word to him of his promise 
to make our marriage public and acknowledge me as his 
wife before the world. I waited and waited with an 
inexpressible longing for him to mention it first. When, 
however, he did not, and more than a twelvemonth had 
gone by since he was free to do me that justice, I took 
advantage of the opportunity offered by one of his short 
visits to me, and asked him if that promise could not now 
be fulfilled. He said not yet; that some obstacle, the 
nature of which I could not understand, forbade, at pres- 
ent; and then he turned the conversation. For two years 
more did I receive, from time to time, siniilar, but all 
unsatisfactory, answers to the same question ; and, when I 
ventured to urge the matter, I only met with discourteous 
rebuffs. 

think I ought to^confess that my temper had suffered 
very much from such a trial. I suspected him not only 
of indifference, but of infidelity to me, and perhaps too 
often accused him of it. He would sometimes laugh at 
such charges, sometimes listen to them sternly, without 
making any reply, and sometimes reply with anger. Yet 
his answers never lessened my suspicions, and, while they 


I/O IV WILL IT END? 


138 

lasted, I would not be the open-breasted, loving wife 
to him that I had been at first. Nor could I always 
restrain my tears in his presence ; which was but another 
cause of irritation to him. Possibly it would have be-en 
^different had I always appeared patient, unsuspicious, un- 
complaining, and unchangeably affectionate. I cannot 
tell. But what he said one day, which I shall never for- 
get, makes me think so sometimes. • After an altercation, — 
for I had made some complaint against him, and, indeed, 
reproached him more and more, — I told him that he loved 
his dog Nero better than me, and asked him why he could 
not treat me as tenderly as he did the brute. 

<< < Why,’ said he, good-naturedly caressing the animal, 
which was really an intelligent, faithful, and affectionate 
creature, ^ when I go out, Nero never complains or in- 
sinuates; is never suspicious or jealous; he only shows 
that he is sorry to part with me ; trusts me fully ; believes 
my reasons are good without asking them ; does not turn 
his head away when I would give him a parting caress, nor 
look unutterable reproaches, and refuse to bid me good- 
by in the usual way ; in short, he has faith in me, — a great 
charm and powerful attraction, my darling, which makes 
up for the want of many others. When I come back, he 
is full of joy, and greets me with unvarying affection, 
never asking me where I have been, nor what I have done; 
never calling me to account for my absence ; never accus- 
ing me, either directly or by innuendo, of a dozen mean 
things, which must make a culpable man angry and an 
innocent man indignant ; never pouting and looking 
glum or spiteful ; never whining or crying, except to get 
at me, unless it be for something which he needs. Then 
I can caress him as long as I wish, and, when I am tired, 
tell him to go away, and he does not feel angry, or wounded, 
or indignant, but is contented to lie down near me or go 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR MONEY, 


139 


and amuse himself. And I am not obliged to talk to him 
when I do not feel like it, nor to listen to a parcel of weari- 
some nonsense out of his mouth, about how the cats have 
ill treated, or some little dog insulted, or some big dog 
slighted him, in order that he may not think I do not care 
for him, or that I do not esteem him intelligent enough to 
be my companion and share my thoughts. When I want 
to read, or write, or sleep, or muse, he is contented and 
happy to be in the room near me, and I am contented to 
have him there. And he knows I like him just as well as 
if I were patting him, and calling him pet names, all the 
time. And I know that he cares as much for me as if he 
were jumping upon me and preventing me from reading, 
writing, sleeping, or thinking. Do you understand it now, 
my dear ?* 

I will not distress you, my son, by detailing the many 
painful scenes which, with increasing frequency, occurred 
between us, as I, growing terrified and desperate at this 
most unreasonable delay, urged and demanded of him, 
more and more vehemently, to take me out of the false 
position in which I had so long been for his sake, by 
certifying, if not to the world, at least to his friends, 
that I was his lawful wife. Before the end of another 
year I had learned the whole truth, or enough of it, at 
least, to explain Walter’s conduct, and my position was 
fixed for life. It happened in this way. Walter spoke to 
me one day somewhat sternly, and with a certain moody 
expression of defiance in voice and manner that I had not 
before seen in him, saying that he wished to have some 
serious conversation with me. 

I was startled by the strangeness of his bearing, and a 
sudden dread, the cause of which I could not explain, 
came over me. He led me to a seat and sat down near 
me. ‘ My dear Gertrude,’ said he, coldly and formally. 


140 


JIO^ WILL IT END? 


^you must not be too much surprised or distressed by 
what I am going to tell you/ It seemed as if my heart 
would cease beating, but I said not a word. ^ I had ex- 
pected,’ he continued, ^to be able to announce our mar- 
riage on the death of my father, as I told you I would. 
But circumstances have not been and are not as I had 
supposed that they would be. It is now impossible for 
me to do so.’ ^ Oh, Walter!’ I exclaimed ; but I could 
say no more. ^ For your own sake and that of the boy,’ 
he went on, ‘ I must ask you to make some sacrifice. I 
find myself overwhelmed with debts which I cannot dis- 
charge. I will not deny that I have played recklessly. 
But such an admission does not help the matter. My 
creditors must be paid, or I shall be disgraced and 
ruined. The estate is so entailed that I cannot make it 
available to the extent necessary for this purpose. You 
have no dower to help me in the emergency. Besides 
paying these debts, I wish to provide for you and the 
child. There is but one way in which I can do this.’ 

‘ What is that, Walter? — what can I do ?’ I asked, feeling 
ready to make any sacrifice of luxury, comfort, or wishes 
in order to help him. ‘I must marry again,’ said he. 

^ Marry again ! ’ I cried ; ^ that is impossible ! ’ ‘ Not at all, ’ 
replied he; ^ it is all arranged.’ ‘All arranged!’ repeated 
I, feeling as if I were losing my senses. ‘Yes,’ returned 
he, ‘all, except with you.’ ‘And what is there to arrange 
with me ?’ I demanded, my faculties all aroused by a sharp 
perception of the wrong which he intended. ‘ That you 
shall not oppose my plan,’ he replied. ‘But I will!’ I 
cried ; ‘ I will ! I shall proclaim to the world that you 
are my husband!’ ‘Where are your proofs?’ asked he, 
coldly, but with a perceptible sneer. ‘Who would be- 
lieve you ?’ Then, for the first time, I felt how powerless 
I was. The marriage certificate, given to him on the 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR MONEY, 


1 41 

evening of our wedding, had never been in my possession. 
I had trusted him implicitly, and it had never occurred to 
me that I needed, or should ever need, this paper for my 
own protection. I did not even remember the clergy- 
man’s name, nor the names of the witnesses who were 
present when the ceremony was performed. Still, I could 
not permit such a crime, and such a wrong to my child 
and myself, without a struggle. ‘ I shall be believed ! ’ I 
cried ; ‘ I will denounce you ! I will prevent the mar- 
riage !’ To this outburst he made no reply, but remained 
silent, looking at me. The calmness of his look, and the 
consciousness of power over me which it revealed, pro- 
duced more effect than could any words which he might 
have uttered. ^Oh, Walter,’ I pleaded, ‘how can you 
think of committing such an offense and such an outrage 
against me and your child ? Think what I have already 
done for you, and show some tenderness, some mercy, 
now. I will submit to any privation for your sake. I 
will continue to live alone and ignominiously, as I have 
done, so long as may be necessary. But do not cast us 
off. What will become of us? Think, think only for 
one moment of my position.’ ‘But,’ replied he, ‘I shall 
make your position very easy.’ ‘Easy!’ I exclaimed, 
scornfully. ‘ Easy 1 — branded as a wanton, with no pos- 
sibility of clearing my reputation, of doing justice to my 
son, or of being reconciled to my parents, by showing 
them that, though indiscreet and wrong, I was not crim- 
inal.’ ‘It is a hard case, I know,’ said he; ‘hard for 
both of us. But it must be so. Now, listen to me care- 
fully, and you shall see that I mean to do well by you. I 
am to marry a lady whose dower will enable me to settle 

a liberal income on you ’ ‘ Think you that I would 

help you to deceive and rob her and then share the 
booty?’ cried I, vehemently. ‘ Be quiet, and hearken to 


142 


BOW WILL IT END? 


me/ rejoined he; and continued, — ^will enable me, as I 
was saying, to settle a liberal income on you and make 
the boy independent. He can thus be educated as a 
gentleman should.’ 

^But I will prevent it!’ said I, passionately. 

^^^Hear me out,’ replied he, calmly. ^ If you show 
no opposition to this marriage, I engage not only to make 
generous provision for you and the child, but to place the 
proofs of our wedlock in responsible hands, to be brought 
forward in case of my death without children by the woman 
I am going to espouse. This would, in that event, secure 
to your son the inheritance and title. On the contrary, 
if you oppose this alliance, and, in so doing, raise the 
question as to our nuptials, I will destroy all evidences of 
our lawful union, deny all you say, assert that you have 
been only my mistress, that the boy is illegitimate, and 
thus ruin any chance of his ever succeeding me or proving 
his legitimacy and taking his place with his peers. You 
would be regarded, not as an injured woman, but as a 
designing impostor, and all without accomplishing your 
purpose to prevent this wedding.’ I could not reply. I 
felt as if I were turning into stone. All my faculties were 
benumbed. I sat, tearless and motionless, gazing at him. 
There must have been something strange in my look, for 
he arose, came to me, and, taking my hand, which lay 
nerveless in my lap, he said, ‘ There, there ! you will think 
better of this on reflection. Take time to consider, and 
you shall see that it is the best thing to be done. I will 
give you a day to weigh the matter thoroughly ; I have no 
doubt that you will then acquiesce. ’ And he left me. 

For a long time I sat without motion, as if insensible, 
in a kind of stupor, unable to realize my situation. 
How long this had lasted I do not know, when you en- 
tered the room, and, running up to me, with a fright- 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR MONEY. 


143 


ened look in your sweet childish face, exclaimed, ^ Oh, 
mamma, what is the matter?’ This aroused me, and, 
taking you in my arms, I gave way to a convulsive fit of 
weeping. At length my tears and strength seemed to be 
spent. I was exhausted by the violence of my emotions. 
I could not think ; I knew not what to do. I could only 
feel that I was completely in Walter’s power, that an 
avalanche was impending over me, and that I and my 
darling child must be crushed. I was entirely ignorant 
of affairs, and had no one to advise me ; and I believed 
it impossible to prove my marriage without the certificate, 
which Walter possessed. The only help that I might obtain 
must come from Walter himself. I dared hope that he 
would have pity on me and not carry his plan into effect. 
All through a sleepless night I was forming prayers which 
I felt must move him to abandon his purpose. I longed 
for him to come back, that I might begin my entreaties. 
Yet, when he came, a feeling of resentment and indig- 
nation, for a time, choked the utterance of any humble 
petition. But his impassibility, his unchangeable coldness, 
showed me that direct resistance would be useless, and 
his calm and determined mien inspired such terror, lest 
he should at once proceed to the accomplishment of his 
scheme, as drove away all courage and every thought 
of withstanding him. I sank on my knees, and, with 
uplifted hands and streaming eyes, I said, ^Walter, I 
have loved you tenderly, better than any or all other 
things in the world. I have been foolish, suspicious, jeal- 
ous, troublesome ; but only because I loved you so much. 
I still love you. I have given you myself, and all my 
hopes; have forsaken father and mother, friends and 
country, for your sake; have suffered the reputation of a 
wanton, and can never claim the respect due to a virtuous 
woman, unless you fulfill the promise on which I staked 


144 


HOW WILL IT END? 


my fair fame and my happiness for life. Do not cast me 
off, Walter; do not abandon me; do not make it appear 
certain that I am what I have been supposed to be. Pity 
me ; pity our child ; pity her whom you would now de- 
ceive. Oh, Walter ! I will wait without murmuring, — I 
have learned to wait. I will complain no more, nor ever 
again ask you even to lift me from the false position 
where I lie ; only do not hurl me into the abyss which 
you have opened before me. I will utter no word of 
jealousy, no word of reproach ; only, if you cannot de- 
clare me your wife, do not declare me to be in the other and 
dreadful position. I will fret no more, nor ever be angry 
or ill-natured again; only do not desert me, dear, dear 
Walter, — do not desert me ! What can I say to you, Wal- 
ter? how move you?^ ^Nothing, in no way,’ replied he, 
coldly and firmly. ^ I have told you that all is arranged 
for my wedding. More than this, all the papers, which 
will secure ample incomes to you and the boy, are ready 
to be signed. You shall not have occasion to say that 
you cannot now trust my promises; for my promises shall 
be executed, and you shall receive the papers on acceding 
to the conditions. All necessary proofs, coupled with 
my own solemn avowal of our marriage, shall be placed, 
sealed, in safe keeping, as I have already told you ; with 
instructions to open and act on them in case of my 
death without issue by her to whom I am about to be 
united. These conditions are : That you shall never, in 
any way, divulge the secret of our nuptials during my life- 
time; and that you shall in no way, either by word or act, 
oppose the union which I contemplate, or interfere with 
it ever so remotely. ’ ^ But if you should die and leave us 

both yet alive, have you no care for the situation of her 
whom you now propose to defraud?’ I asked. ‘ You will 
have the prior right, should she have no children, and I 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR MONEY, 


145 


shall leave you to fight about me as you will. Should I, 
however, have an heir by her, she will possess the advan- 
tage ; for in that case you will never receive the evidence 
of our wedlock. On the other hand, should I have no 
child by her, you will hold all the cards ; for the proofs 
of our lawful union will be placed in your hands. Do 
you understand it, my dear? I think that will be about 
fair to both. Besides, I rather like the arrangement. It 
will be like a game of chance, — for you two, I mean. 
But it is hardly likely that you will both, or, for that 
matter, either of you, survive me. I intend to live a long 
time.’ ^But if I should not agree to the conditions?’ 1 
asked. ‘Then I shall make no provision for you or your 
boy,’ he answered; ‘I shall destroy the only means by 
which, in any event, his legitimacy might be proved, and 
forever cut off any possibility of his succeeding me, as 
well as of the justification of your own conduct. Hard 
it may be, but necessary. ’ ‘ I will not agree to such a 

proposition,’ I cried. ‘I will never be your accomplice in 
such a crime. I will forbid your marriage, even at the altar. 
I will declare that I am your wife ; and I shall be believed. ’ 
‘Very well,’ said he, quietly; ‘you must act as you see 
fit. I tell you plainly that you cannot make yourself 
believed where it is for my interest that you should not be, 
and I know what I say. Consequently you cannot hinder 
this alliance, nor shall you be able to bring proofs to in- 
validate the rite. I tell you, further, that if I leave you 
without your full consent to my plan — yes, without your 
having sworn to observe the conditions which I have 
named — it will be to destroy at once all evidence that 
could prove the legitimacy of your son. You have told 
me a hundred times that I did not care for him. Now 
let us see how much you care for him yourself. Have 
you decided?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered; ‘I will prevent this 

13 


146 


HOJV WILL IT END? 


marriage. Even the love I bear my child shall not tempt 
me to share the responsibility of such a sin, though only 
by conniving at it,’ ^ How can you be responsible for 
that which you can in no way control ?’ asked he ; ‘ for 
I swear to you that it is impossible for you to do more 
than ruin any and every chance of doing justice to your 
son. Are you still determined?’ I confess that I hesitated; 
yet I had courage to say, ‘Yes; I shall oppose you.’ He 
did not reply, but, calmly taking his hat, walked to the 
door, opened it without looking back, and was about to 
close it behind him, when I rushed forward, seized him 
by the arm, and drew him in again, exclaiming, ‘ Oh, Wal- 
ter, Walter ! have you no mercy, no sense of justice, no 
conscience ? I entreat you, give up this scheme. It can 

only bring misery on all concerned ’ ‘ If this is all 

you had to say,’ interrupted he, ‘it was not worth while 
to bring me back. My purpose is fixed. I have explained 
it to you. I have given you the best advice that I can. 
If you will follow it, all will be well. If you will not, 
yourself and your child only will be the sufferers. Your 
foolish whims about responsibility, as an accomplice in a 
crime, are all nonsense. You will neither commit nor 
can you hinder that which you choose so to designate. 
If you have any motherly tenderness, any affection; if 
you would not abandon your boy and blight all his pros- 
pects in life; if you would not fix upon him forever the 
stain of illegitimacy, you will consent to do as I wish. It 

appears that, of the two, I love him best ’ ‘ Oh, no, 

no ! that is not true !’ I cried. ‘ Oh, what shall I do ?’ ‘I 
have told you,’ he rejoined. 

“But in vain should I repeat to you more of this most 
distressing conversation. In vain should I try to convey 
any adequate notion of the torture which I endured, of 
the conflict which tore my breast, of how I resisted, and 


THE LETTER— ALL FOR MONEY. 


147 


of how, finally, he prevailed, and I agreed to all the con- 
ditions which he imposed, believing, in my fond affection 
for you, that I could not be culpable in respect to this 
marriage, since I could not be guilty of doing what I did 
not consent to, and what I could in no wise prevent; and 
believing, also, that in this way alone could I discharge 
my duty to you, my darling boy. I will admit that my 
love for you may have blinded me. But how else could 
I have acted ? So, with many sobs and tears, I agreed, 
nay, solemnly swore, that, so long as Walter should live, 
I would not divulge the secret of our wedlock, and that 
I would in no way oppose his intended alliance. I now 
state to you most solemnly, my son, that when this con- 
sent was wrung from me, and when I took this oath, I 
had entirely forgotten all that Walter had said about pro- 
viding for you and me from the dower of the woman he 
was about to deceive, or from any other source. I only 
thought of you, and of doing all that I could to make 
justice to yourself and to your fair name possible.’’ 

believe that! Oh, I know that!” cried Bulldon, 
in a voice which betrayed his agitation. Oh, how, all 
my life long,' have I wronged you, my poor, martyred 
mother !” 

He turned his face to the wall and again wept a long 
time, silently. Allerton did not interrupt him, but waited 
till his emotions should have spent themselves somewhat 
before continuing to read. 

say, Allerton,” spoke Bulldon at length, ‘‘I sin- 
cerely hope it may appear that no evidence remained to 
prove that man my father.” 


148 


irO}F WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER XIX. 

THE LETTER, CONTINUED — SEVERING. 

Presently Bulldon spoke again: ‘^Read, read, — - 
please,’^ said he. ‘‘I am impatient to hear it all.^^ And 
Allerton once more took up the letter : 

^^The ceremony between Walter and the Lady , 

whom he designed so cruelly to wrong, was performed. I 
cannot say they were married, though she and all the world 
believed so, — all the world except Walter and myself. For 
the nuptials of Lord X. and the Lady , a really esti- 

mable person, as I heard from general gossip, were too im- 
portant a matter not to be talked of far and wide. I will 
not attempt to describe my sufferings when that event took 
place. I had thought there was no pang sharper than 
those I had already endured. But I found my error then, 
when I knew that the festivities of a wedding were going 
on, and that he was personating the bridegroom. How I 
passed the day and night I cannot tell. All the agonies 
of jealousy, all the certainty of receiving the most grievous 
wrong, all the compunctions of a sensitive conscience for 
permitting that which, now that it was too late, my imagi- 
nation, my wishes, and my love alike told me — falsely, 
perhaps — that I might have thwarted, combined to place 
me upon the rack. I could neither reason nor think. I 
felt that I was going mad. It is a wonder that I did not. 
My love for and sense of duty to you helped me to bear 
up against the crushing weight that rested on me. 

‘H received some papers from men of business, which 
showed that the provision promised by Lord X. had been 


THE LETTER-SEVERING. 


149 


made for you and me. I refused to touch a farthing of it. 
I wrote to Lord X., and told him that I would not and 
could not use money so obtained. He replied, calling me 
a simpleton, saying that the money with which this settle- 
ment had been made came from the estate which he had 
inherited of his father ; that he had paid his debts from the 

wealth which he had received with the Lady , and was 

thus able to set apart a portion of his own income for our 
benefit ; and that, for your sake, I must accept and use it. 
There was a sophistry in this, which, however, I did not 
then perceive; and, on your account, I overcame my 
repugnance. 

After some months. Lord X. called on me. At first I 
refused to see him. He urged that it was necessary for 
him and me to discuss and arrange some plan for your 
education; and, again for your dear sake, my darling 
child, I yielded. The interview was very painful to me. 
I was constrained and very ill at ease. He seemed calm, 
controlled, and, as usual, — that is, as he had been latterly, — 
cold and inflexible. We agreed upon the manner of your 
education, and Lord X. continued to call, at intervals, 
giving as a reason for so doing, and to induce me to see 
him, that he must care for you personally, since it was 
more than possible that some day you might become his 
heir. 

‘‘Let me not needlessly distress you by recounting all 
the misery to be borne in such a position as that which I 
occupied, varied only by greater or less intensity rather 
than by any transient alleviations. Oh, how I thought of, 
longed for, wept for, and prayed for my dear father and 
mother, whom I had so abused, and who had so justly 
cast me off! How I pined for some word of news from 
home, some sign of remembrance, some token of forgive- 
ness I But of all these I was hopeless. In you alone, 

13* 


HOW WILL IT END? 


150 

my dear son, I found earthly comfort and consolation. You 
were ever affectionate, and became more and more tender 
and considerate of your mother as you grew older. The 
mortifications on account of your birth, which you bravely 
endured, and for having been, in some measure, the cause 
of which I could not excuse myself, only made you dearer 
to me. All the pain which I suffered for that reason, and 
the tears which I shed in secret, you never knew, and I 
trust that you never may. 

^‘Thus the time passed till you were sixteen years old. 
Your education was well advanced. You had always shown 
yourself ready and quick to learn, and were so far supe- 
rior to most boys of that age in all manly qualities that I 
began, instinctively, to look to you for support, protec- 
tion, and advice. But the ever-present memory of my 
dear home, of my fond parents and my proud brother, 
was to me a constant and consuming sorrow. 

One day, about this time, as we were walking together, 
my only brother met us. I recognized him immediately. 
Surprised and overjoyed, I stretched out my arms, and 
started to embrace him. But he refused to know me. I 
fainted ; and you, my ever-watchful, my darling child, 
carried me into a place of shelter. You must remember 
this. It was not long ago. But I forget that it may, and, 
I trust, will, be long years before you read this. A few 
days afterward I sought out, and, by an innocent strata- 
gem, obtained an interview with, this brother. But what 
an interview ! I tremble now, as the scene comes back to 
me. It was just before my last illness, through which you 
watched me so tenderly. My brother would not em- 
brace me, would not speak kindly to me; told me, sternly, 
terribly, that I had killed my father and mother and dis- 
graced all my family ; that my loving parents sank under 
the sorrow caused by my ill conduct and desertion ; and 


THE LETTER-SEVERING. 


151 

that he never wished to see or hear from me again. I tried 
to soften his anger, but only increased the violence of his 
denunciations. Perhaps I could have borne all this better 
had I felt the consciousness of such guilt as he laid to my 
charge. But to know that I was innocent of this, and 
yet not dare to defend myself, not dare to assert my purity, 
to say that I was lawfully married, — which I could not 
do, because of my promise and oath to Lord X, — ah, my 
son, this was terrible ! Now you know the cause of that 
fearful illness. Now I am sure that you pity me, if you 
do not pardon me. 

‘‘After this meeting with my brother, receiving such 
dreadful news from home, and that bitter illness, I resolved 
to carry into effect a purpose which I had for a long time 
entertained, but the execution of which I had put off to 
the indefinite future. I had, for some years, obtained the 
greatest of all consolations from religion ; and, consider- 
ing that I needed every aid to repentance which could be 
found ; considering, also, that should Lady and my- 

self both outlive Lord X., what a bitter strife there would 
be; how she would suffer in turn, and how justly she could 
accuse me of sharing in the wrong done to her ; consider- 
ing, likewise, that, after you should have fairly entered on 
your career in life, I should be but a weight upon you, 
and a bar, in some measure, to your happiness ’ ' 

“Oh, mother!^’ broke in Bulldon, reproachfully. 

“And social advancement,” continued Allerton, read- 
ing, — “thinking, too, that perhaps Heaven would be 
pleased to accept as some atonement this sacrifice on my 
part, I had formed the plan of retiring to a convent, and 
there, shut within its sacred walls, becoming dead to the 
world. 

“Latterly I had felt another and a strong motive for 
achieving this design. A horrible suspicion had arisen in 


152 


WILL IT END? 


my mind that I had never been lawfully wedded to Lord 
X. ; that the apparent marriage was a pretense and a decep- 
tion. As I reviewed all the circumstances, it seemed more 
probable that this should be the case than that he should 
have dared to violate the laws and become legally as 
well as morally criminal. From this suspicion, which 
grew stronger and stronger, I could not free myself. 
Should it, fortunately for you, prove to have been un- 
founded, and should Lord X. die without children by 

Lady , as now seems probable enough, your chance to 

be declared his legitimate heir will not be injured by the 
execution of the purpose I have cherished. The time for 
carrying that purpose into effect, my dear son, has come. 
To-morrow you will join your regiment, and soon you will 
be far away from the land of your birth and all the mor- 
tifications to which you have been subjected. You will no 
longer need me. I pray, my darling, that you may remem- 
ber all that I have ever said to you in favor of virtue and 
religion, and be wiser, better, and happier than your sor- 
rowful mother. I shall not tell you whither I am going, 
and it will be useless for you to seek me. I fear that my 
resolution could not resist your entreaties, therefore I part 
from you thus. And because I have solemnly promised to 
keep secret what I have here written, I shall ask you not 
to read this letter till you shall be near your own death ; 
when you shall be, as it were, no more of this world. 
Even in doing this perhaps I in some measure violate 
my oath. But I trust not. 

‘‘And now, my son, whom I am never again to see on 
earth, farewell. Only in heaven, where I trust we shall 
meet, with the language of that blissful realm, can I tell 
you how dear you have been and are to me ; how grateful 
I am to you for all the sweet veneration and love which 
you have ever shown me. 


RECOGNIZED. 


153 


^^What can I say more, except to pray our heavenly 
Father, as I shall never cease to do, that He will be 
pleased to watch over, guard, and guide you, and, at 
length, unite us where there shall be no more parting 
nor sorrow, and where all tears shall be wiped from every 
eye? 

Farewell, farewell, my dear son, my only child ! 
Forgive, and, now that you are near the presence of In- 
finite Mercy, pray that pardon and repose may be granted 
to the soul of, your weeping mother, 

Gertrude.’* 


CHAPTER XX. 

RECOGNIZED. 

'^You must not laugh at me, old fellow,” said Bull- 
don, smiling, and wiping his eyes at the same time, some 
minutes after the reading of the letter was ended. He 
was the first to speak ; for Allerton himself, much touched 
by the mother’s sad story and final message to her son, 
had remained silent. 

^^You will think me a woman,” continued Bulldon; 

but it is not my fault. That rascally bullet unstrung 
my nerves, I think, and made a leak in my head.” 

Doubtless. But what are you going to do ?” 

Allerton spoke anxiously; for he saw his friend raise 
himself to a sitting posture. 

‘‘I am going to get up. I must think. I must move. 
I cannot lie here,” said Bulldon. 

‘^Are you mad?” cried Allerton. 


154 


IfOH^ IVILL IT END? 


Not at all/* replied Bulldon. I am just beginning 
to be sane.** 

^‘And insist upon killing yourself ’* 

The furthest from it. I insist upon living in spite 
of the wound and in spite of the surgeon. If you wish to 
kill me, keep me tied to this bed. I tell you I must have 
motion, or my brain will be ablaze in two minutes. When 
I think that my mother still lives ; that she has suffered, 
yet suffers, so much for me ; that I have done her one 
horrible injustice all my life long, I cannot remain here 
quiet. I must find the way to free myself, and then find 
her.** 

Vain haste, my very good friend, which will only re- 
tard, perhaps prevent wholly, the accomplishment of your 
purpose,** urged Allerton. ‘‘Use caution till you are 
restored to health, or at least till you are out of danger ; 
then act with such vigor as you may.** 

“ I know myself. Ally, and what is best for me to do,** 
replied the invalid. “There,** he added, stepping from 
the cot, and taking his comrade *s proffered arm, “let me 
walk a little; it will relieve me.** 

To Allerton*s surprise, Bulldon walked, with a toler- 
ably firm step, several times up and down the narrow 
room ; and then, seating himself on the side of his cot, 
he said, — 

“I shall not be fit to attempt another escape for some 
days. We must, therefore, find some way to be exchanged, 
if these fellows* do not try to make us out spies, because 
of our disguise, etc. If we succeed, I shall then ask 
leave of absence ; and if this is refused, I shall throw 
up my commission. Then I shall go in search of my 
mother * * 

“Where?** asked the colonel, interrupting him. 

“ In a convent.** 


RECOGNIZED. 


155 


^‘But there are so many.’’ 

‘‘In them all, if necessary.” 

“You will not be admitted.” 

“No matter.” 

“And will make your search in vain.” 

“Oh, no. I shall find my mother. I shall see her. 
I shall bring her away.” 

“How?” 

“ I do not know exactly yet. I must think. But, if 
it cannot be effected otherwise, I will organize a band of 
free lances, and, when I shall have found her, will raze 
the convent, if they do not give her up.” 

Allerton did not think it wise or needful to thwart his 
friend or try to chill the enthusiasm of his affection. Be- 
sides, he had not the heart to do it. He was aware, as 
Bulldon was not, of the charge already laid against them, 
and how improbable it was that any means which they 
could command should save them from a sudden and ig- 
nominious death. For himself, indeed, he had no hope. 
But he did not wholly despair in regard to his companion. 
He intended to exercise all his ingenuity to show that 
Bulldon at least was innocent of the offense of which they 
were, with so much show of reason, accused ; but he could, 
as yet, form no definite plan. He carefully abstained from 
giving his comrade any hint of the great danger which 
threatened them, and allowed him to think that, so far as 
known, they were, menaced by no worse fate than that of 
recaptured prisoners of war. The hope of saving his 
friend, in some way as yet unseen, made him note, with 
pleasure, indications that Bulldon’ s wound was not at all 
dangerous, nor so severe as had at first been supposed, 
and that it would probably seriously incommode him but 
a short time. 

To tell the truth, Allerton did not look forward to the 


156 HOW WILL IT END? 

certain death which awaited himself with any feelings of 
keen regret, save for its disgrace ; and even this he was 
confident would some time be lifted from his name. He 
was an only child, and an orphan. Though the heir to 
large wealth, his tastes were such that the coarser pleas- 
ures which riches can procure gave him no delight. As 
such tastes were exceptional in the class to which he be- 
longed, he had really lived alone ; that is, without enjoy- 
ing in any full degree the sympathy of his associates. They 
respected him, but felt that he stood somewhat apart from 
and above them. He had friends, but none who looked 
to him especially for protection or love. He was confi- 
dent that his death would hardly be seriously mourned, or 
render any person, except his faithful well-wisher Bull- 
don, a long time unhappy. The result of his confession 
to Marion and the manner of their parting, now that the 
excitement and activity which followed were ended,, op- 
pressed him greatly. The reaction, also, after the over- 
straining of his nervous system, and the weariness caused 
by the last night’s labors, fitted him to be the prey of the 
deepest despondency. Though for some time aware that 
he loved Marion, with all his heart, he had really never 
before felt how completely his whole being was given up 
to that powerful affection. And now that he must make 
up his mind to suffer in silence the pangs of such affection 
unrequited, for separate it from his soul he was sure that 
he never could, he found himself weak as a child, with- 
out the wish even for resolution and elasticity of spirit 
enough to make him desire to live. He was ashamed of 
what he deemed 'a most unmanly weakness, yet to it he 
could not but surrender himself. He tried, however, and 
with tolerable success, to hide his sufferings even from 
Bulldon. It must be admitted, though, that at this time 
that worthy friend was not very observant. His thoughts 


RECOGNIZED, 


157 

were naturally employed upon matters touching more 
nearly himself. For, in addition to his wound, and the 
disclosures made and hopes excited by the letter which 
Allerton had just read, another subject forced itself upon 
his mind. Convicted, as he avowed himself to be, of 
having wrongfully judged his own mother, he began to 
fear that he might have done injustice to another of her 
sex, namely, the fair beauty who alone had won his 
heart. He questioned with himself whether the facts 
which he had seen, and which seemed so fully to prove 
her unworthiness, might not be explained in such a way 
as to free her from any charge of infidelity or even of 
imprudence. The thought that this might be the case sent 
a thrill of joy through him, followed, however, by a pang 
of apprehension, as it occurred to him that, had he falsely 
judged and, as it must then seem, wantonly injured her, 
she might, with reason, refuse again to see him or receive 
any message from him. This fear did not, however, damp 
his ardor, or calm his anxiety to be free and engage in 
the solution of the riddles on which his hopes and future 
happiness so greatly depended. These hopes and fears 
in regard to the object of his love he made known to 
Allerton, who, feeling how readily he would forgive 
Marion for her hasty and unjust judgment of himself, gave 
his friend every encouragement. Bulldon’s eyes bright- 
ened, a soft light seemed to overspread and shine from his 
pale but manly face, and his wound was, for the moment, 
wholly forgotten as he yielded himself up to delightful 
anticipations of the coming time when his mother should 
be restored to him and he to the arms of his sweetheart. 
As the captain’s hopes grew brighter, the colonel felt, by 
the contrast, how utterly his had gone out ; and he was 
calling to his aid all the stoicism of which he was master, 
when an officer, with a file of soldiers, entered the room, 

14 


HOW WILL IT END? 


158 

and, leaving one man in charge of Bulldon, directed 
Allerton to accompany him. 

Where is he going?’* asked the invalid. But the 
officer returned no answer. 

Can you not take me too?” again asked the wounded 
man. 

can only execute my orders,” replied the officer. 

March !” added he, turning to the soldiers. And Aller- 
ton, casting a look at Bulldon in which anxiety and ten- 
derness were indescribably blended, went out of the room 
with his guards. 

As they crossed the grounds within the fort to a building 
opposite that from which he had just come, Allerton saw 
Captain Trangolar standing near by, with a lady leaning 
upon his arm, whom the colonel did not know. This 
lady was Marguerite, Trangolar’ s sister. Allerton saluted 
the captain, who courteously returned the greeting, and, 
with his escort, passed on. He noticed that the lady 
made a movement, as if of surprise, on seeing him, and 
that she eagerly said something in a low voice to her 
companion. What the lady said was this : 

^^That is Colonel Allerton. You are right, brother. 
The other must be Captain Bulldon.” 

Allerton was taken to an office in one of the buildings 
within the fortifications, where the Honorable Pestyfog 
Clappergong was waiting, and the two were left together. 


PROPOSAL FOR AN ALLIANCE, 


IS9 


CHAPTER XXL 

PROPOSAL FOR AN ALLIANCE OFFENSIVE AND DEFENSIVE. 

The Honorable Mr. Clappergong had brought about 
this meeting. With the vanity and fatuity of not a few 
of his sex, he could only account for his own want of good 
fortune in a love-affair by assuming that a fortunate rival 
stood in the way. And he took it for granted that, if 
Allerton were set aside, or rather Marion’s love for that 
gentleman, he could himself easily obtain her hand. 
The same thought was in the Honorable Pesty fog’s mind 
when he laid his plan for making it appear that the colonel 
was a spy, and thus degrading him in that lady’s estima- 
tion. He knew well enough that, if the young officer were 
sacrificed while his honor and reputation should remain 
untarnished, Marion’s love for him would not only be 
increased, but would also be consecrated to his memory. 
If he could, however, abase in her esteem the favored 
lover, and make him appear unworthy of affection and 
respect, he believed that he himself would have much to 
hope for from Miss Devray’s high spirit and impulsive- 
ness; as he was confident that, during the reaction in 
her feelings thus produced, she might readily be per- 
suaded to give herself to him, if for no other reason 
than to show the unworthy aspirant how ineffectual had 
been his wooing, and how little he was cared for by her. 
The Honorable gentleman had formed a plan through 
which to work out the favorite’s destruction in his mis- 
tress’s good opinion, and counted upon dread of dis- 
grace and love of life as his aids in carrying it into effect. 
With this amiable motive he had caused Allerton to be 


i6o 


WILL IT END? 


brought into his august presence. In the short time given 
him to consider, he could hit upon no plot so likely to 
succeed as the one he had adopted. 

When Colonel Allerton entered the room, the Honor 
,able Pestyfog advanced to greet him with well-feigned 
cordiality, something of which he might have felt at the 
moment ; for he sincerely wished to make that officer his 
ally. But he was checked in middle course by the cold 
and formal manner in which he was himself saluted. 
With a show of easy frankness, the Honorable gentleman 
said, — 

I have learned of the disagreeable evidence against 
yourself and friend, discovered when you were taken, 
and have come to see if I can render you any assistance. 
It will be d — d hard, though, to do anything for you, 
if all that they tell me is true.’’ 

‘‘This is singular language,” replied Allerton, “from 
the man to whom I am, unless I be greatly in error, wholly 
indebted for my capture.” 

“You are very right in that supposition, colonel,” 
returned the other; “but how the d — 1 could I know 
what you had been about ? I learned from Cass that you 
were going to take French leave of us, and thought it my 
duty to insist on retaining you as our guests. But if I 
had known what was to come of it, ’pon my soul I think 
I should have let you go and do us what harm you could. 
In the ordinary intercourse of life we may have our tiffs 
and differences, disputes in politics and rivalries in love ; 
but, when a serious matter like this occurs, they must all 
be forgotten.” 

“ The sentiments which you express are very generous, 
sir,” said Allerton, “and highly creditable to yourself.” 

“ No more generous than sincere, I assure you,” replied 
the Honorable Mr. Clappergong; “but yet not altogether 


PROPOSAL FOR AN ALLIANCE. i6i 

SO disinterested as you may think. If I use my influence 
for you, yours must be used for me.^^ 

shall be happy to exchange services with you, so 
far as I may honorably,” responded the colonel. 

‘‘Believe me, I would not wish you to do anything 
dishonorable, any more than I would do it myself,” said 
the Honorable gentleman; and he continued: “You 
can lose nothing, nor would you really yield anything, by 
complying with my request, and consenting to aid me.” 

“Will you be good enough to state clearly your pro- 
position ? — for it seems that I am asked to make a bargain 
of some kind,” observed Allerton. 

“More correctly and definitely, an alliance offensive 
and defensive,” replied the other. 

“Oh! Let me hear the terms, if you please. What 
am I to undertake?” asked Allerton. 

“I believe,” answered the Honorable Pestyfog, “that 
neither of us will deny that we have been rivals, — have 
» been, I say, for we are so no longer. ’ ’ 

“Do you withdraw your pretensions to the lady’s 
hand ?” 

“Oh, no. You have thrown up the game; and now I 
know that you never played it seriously. The seeming 
earnestness was a blind, a part of your strategy. ’ ’ 

“Indeed 1” 

“I am now quite convinced of it,” said the Honor- 
able Mr. Clappergong, with great apparent candor; “but 
it was deuced well done ; took me in, and the lady too, — 
almost.” 

“Really!” 

“Ton honor. And now to come to the point, since I 
am a man of few words in business. What I propose is 
this : either to secure your acquittal of the capital charge 
against you, or effect your escape; provided you will 
14* 


i 62 


I/O tv WILL IT END? 


address a letter, either to me or to Miss Devray, in which 
you shall state that, in paying court to her, you were not 
sincere, but only did it the more thoroughly to keep up 

your assumed character and carry out your purposes ’ * 

That would be false, sir interrupted Allerton. 
Remember, that what is true in love one day may be 
false the next. If you have saved any of the precious 
letters of an old sweetheart who has thrown you over, 
look at them and see how utterly false they are now, — 
all their passionate expressions, all their vows of eternal 
affection. Yet, doubtless, they were true when written. 
Doubtless, too, you felt enough of what you said to this 
lady, when with her daily, to make your speeches true at 
the time of their utterance. But the sentiments so ex- 
pressed are not living truths, my dear sir ; they are very 
delicate ; a change of air affects them ; they die early, and 
are by no means eternal. Such is the case with your love- 
affair, or flirtation, or what you will, with this lady. I 
only ask you to say so in writing, and to add the explana- 
tion that I have suggested.’* 

And if I decline ?” 

shall let things take their course without inter- 
ference. All things are fair in love, as in war, you know. 
We are enemies, as well as rivals, if you refuse. If you 
consent, we shall be no longer rivals, no longer enemies, 
but allies ; and I can save your life and your honor. ’ ’ 

Save my honor by inducing me to convict myself of 
acting as no man of honor could ! ’ ’ 

PC)h ! poh ! All things are fair in war, even making 
love to a pretty girl. But I can see nothing so very 
dishonorable in paying compliments to a lovely woman, 
even in time of peace, though they be not sincere. It 
is a benevolent act, sir; it flatters her, makes her think 
that you will soon be ready to die for her, and that she 


PROPOSAL FOR AN ALLIANCE. 


163 


shall have the proud satisfaction of refusing you one of 
these days, and of seeing you expire at her feet. It 
causes her to feel well ; gives her the greatest gratification. 
Nothing dishonorable in that, I assure you, sir.** 

You think so ?** 

'' Certainly.** 

‘‘You propose a very easy way to get out of an ugly 
scrape ; for I am aware of the odds against me.*' 
“Nothing easier, in fact.** 

“Yes, ‘it is as easy as lying.* ** 

“ Then you will write the letter?** 

“Excuse me, please.** 

“You mean that you will not?** 

“As near as my meaning can be stated.** 

“You prefer to take the chances?’* 

“Yes. I’ll be hanged first.** 

“ Perhaps you will change your mind after reading this 
letter, which I am commissioned to deliver. It was given 
to me open, as you see it.” 

Here the Honorable Mr. Clappergong handed to his 
rival an unsealed note, the one which he had himself re- 
ceived, without superscription, and went on to say, — 
“Doubtless you know the handwriting. At any rate, you 
will recognize the signature.” 

Allerton did recognize both the handwriting and the 
signature. The note contained only the following words : 

“You will please spare me the pain of seeing, and even 
of refusing to see, you again. After what has traiispired 
there cannot be so much as friendship between us. Call 
yourself to my recollection in no way ; but let me concede 
to you the greatest indulgence in my power, which is, 
utterly to forget yourself and your persecutions. 

“Marion Devray.** 


164 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


As Allerton finished reading this letter, he showed no 
other sign of emotion than an extreme paleness, which 
overspread his dark features. 

‘^Permit me,’* said the Honorable Pestyfog, ‘‘to urge 
the reasonableness of my conviction that you can lose 
nothing by complying with my request, or rather making 
the proposed treaty with me ; that there could now be no 
impropriety in writing such a letter as I have suggested ; 
but that, on the contrary, you would in so doing act like 
a man of spirit, and deprive the young woman of her 
triumph. ’ ’ 

“I have no wish to deprive her of any triumph which 
she can enjoy, or deny her any satisfaction,” replied the 
other. “I deceived her. Many palliations of my con- 
duct could be pleaded, no doubt ; but yet I deceived her, 
and I cannot reproach her for resenting what she has so 
much reason to regard as a base affront. My respect, 
esteem, and affection for her remain unchanged. I can- 
not attempt to humiliate her further, or to revenge myself ; 
especially by such a wanton insult, and a falsehood so 
mean, as those you propose.” 

“You will not pretend to say that you would not tell 
a lie to save your life?” 

“ Perhaps I might ; I cannot be certain. But never 
such a lie.” 

“Very well. I have made you a fair offer.” 

“I am much obliged to you. But pardon me if I say 
that I cannot quite see how you could profit by my 
acceptance of your proposal.” 

“I will explain. I am talking very frankly with you, 
as you may perceive. The truth is, that young lady is 
quite upset by the necessity imposed upon her to treat 
you severely, as she thinks. And there may be a linger- 
ing doubt as to whether she has been perfectly just, you 


PROPOSAL FOR AN ALLIANCE, 165 

see. Her powerful imagination, and her sensitive love of 
justice, may cause her some qualms of conscience, and 
retard her action in my favor, in order that reparation, 
should it appear to be due, may not be wholly beyond 
her power. Note that I take a view the most favorable 
to you that can be. Now, were she to know that you 
never have been serious in your attentions, that you 
never really loved her, especially if the assurance were 
coupled with a fact which should wound her pride and 
pique her, she would naturally rush into my arms, you 
know ’ ’ 

‘‘Death and broke in Allerton, but stopped 

before the ejaculation had entirely escaped his lips. 

“ for protection,” continued the Honorable gen- 

tleman, quietly. “She has long been acquainted with 
me, knows and appreciates my love, and you would help 
me to a wife whom you can never have. Do not emulate 
the dog in the manger, my dear sir. Use your magna- 
nimity, and take your life as the reward.” 

Allerton evidently made a strong effort to control him- 
self, and said, with forced calmness, — 

“Before doing this, I ought to be convinced that you 
can, as you say, save, my life and that of my friend. 
What evidence of such power have you to offer ?’ ’ 

“Why, sir, if I can prove that you are no spy at all; 
that your disguise was worn for no dishonorable or illegal 
purpose; that some one else, without your knowledge, 
placed those drawings in your boot?” 

“ Go on, if you please.” 

“ What did you ever do to turn that d — d Cass against 
you?” 

“ Cass?” 

“Yes. Can you think of nothing? Why did he be- 
tray you to me ? Why did he bring the boots from your 


i66 


HOW WILL IT END? 


room late in the morning, while you were yet in the 
garden, after I left you ? He is quite intelligent enough 
to play such a trick, if he wished to be revenged on you. 
What cause had you given him ?’ ^ 

‘^None, that I am aware of; certainly none intention- 
ally,*’ replied Allerton, wondering and questioning in his 
own mind whether Cass could really have played him 
false. He was a good judge of men, and had confidently 
trusted that servant to the utmost. Somebody had, how- 
ever, been treacherous. 

am sure that I could work up evidence enough to 
convict that fellow of the trick,” said the Honorable Mr. 
Clappergong. He would receive some light punish- 
ment, perhaps, and you would get off scot-free. Should 
I fail in this, I pledge you my word that I could and would 
procure your acquittal in' some other way, or effect your 
escape. I can count upon my influence with those who 
have you in charge. I got their places for them. Will 
you consider my proposition favorably?” 

No, sir. Let us discuss it no more, if you please.” 

^^As you will. But I would recommend that you think 
very carefully before giving your final answer.” 

‘‘I need no further reflection. . I have, however, one 
favor to ask. My friend and comrade surely ought not to 
suffer for my misfortunes. Exert your influence for him. 
You can easily set him free. There is no rivalry, nor has 
there been, between you. Be magnanimous yourself, then, 
and relieve him from this charge, if yoii possess the skill 
and power which you claim.” 

^‘Impossible, sir! He must stand or fall with you in 
this matter ; another reason why you should agree to my 
terms. ” 

“ Circumstances have given you great advantages as a 
tempter. I would do that to save him which I would not 


EMBARRASSMENTS. 


167 


do to save myself. But neither for myself nor for him 
would I do what you ask, — lie against my own soul, and 
against the woman who, if I know myself, is dearer to 
me than life. This is my -final answer.” 

‘‘Very well, sir, — very well. Since you despise my 
kindness, you shall learn to respect my power. ’ ’ 

“And your vindictiveness. I have no doubt you will 
do your worst, and that your worst is very bad. Love of 
honor and the wish to do my duty led me to the field, 
where my life must be constantly exposed. I cannot turn 
craven now that the crisis is at hand. It is sure to come, 
and it comes but once. Will you permit me to go back to 
my friend ?” 

“ D — n you, yes ! the sooner the better.” 

Here the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong, with ill-con- 
cealed rage, called in the officer, who reconducted Allerton 
to the room in which Bulldon awaited him with impa- 
tience. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

EMBARRASSMENTS — A GEM GIVES LIGHT — A FORERUNNER. 

Only when Marion, with her companions, reached the 
fort, and she was expecting momentarily to meet her 
father, did the embarrassments of her situation, and the 
difficulties of her undertaking, appear to her clearly. Gen- 
eral Devray was wholly ignorant of her acquaintance, 
ev'en, with the prisoners. How could she account for her 
great interest in their fate ? How could she, so earnest a 
partisan, try to save from merited punishment two men 
who had, to all appearance at least, unscrupulously and 


i68 


IfOlV WILL IT END? 


most indelicately abused the hospitality of her father^s 
house, and the confidence placed in them by his family? 
How seek to screen persons who had enlisted in their 
shameful service the noblest qualities of generous enter- 
tainers only to betray them in the most dishonorable 
manner ? True, she believed that they were guiltless of 
any unworthy act or intention. But what could her 
simple woman’s faith in their innocence and honor avail 
when opposed by the facts which could not be denied ? 
Certainly she should have to explain to her father why, 
in the face of such facts, she so earnestly wished his in- 
terposition in favor of the accused. She felt that she 
ought to do what she instinctively desired, and what was 
most consistent with her frank and loyal character, — 
namely, tell him the whole story of her acquaintance 
with the captives, and confess her love for Allerton. She 
knew that, however her father might oppose such an in- 
clination on the part of his daughter, however indiscreet 
and ill directed he might regard it, she could be sure of 
his kindly respect and tender sympathy in making him 
her confidant and going to him as to her best friend in 
trouble. She would ask nothing but that the lives of the 
unfortunate young men should be spared ; if it were be- 
yond her father’s power to grant that request, she would 
pray that the execution might be delayed, confident that 
the innocence of the accused would be made clear if a little 
time were allowed for the preparation of their defense. 
Poor girl ! Her wishes and affections were the grounds 
of her belief. She drew conclusions from what she felt 
in her heart should be the truth, not from the actual and 
inexorable facts, which alone could be considered by a 
court. 

Her father had not yet arrived. Trangolar and Sister 
Marguerite had gone to the fort, and, during their ab- 


A GEM GIVES LIGHT. 


169 


sence, Marion suffered great impatience for their return, 
which, together with the desire to see and make all 
the amends in her power to Colonel Allerton for what 
she had said and done when last they saw each other, 
and anxiety for her father’s coming, agitated her most 
painfully. She could not force herself to stay quietly in 
the house. It seemed like a prison to her ; and, going 
out, she walked up and down the road by which the 
captain and his sister would return. 

As she was thus employed, often looking anxiously 
towards the gate through which Trangolar and Margue- 
rite must come out, a soldier of the lower class approached 
her. He appeared somewhat shy or cautious, frequently 
looking furtively around, as if to see if he were observed. 
No person was near at the time, and, touching his cap 
awkwardly, he bade Marion good-day. 

‘‘If you please, ma’am,” said he, “I should like to 
show you something.” 

“What is it?” asked she, stopping. 

“This, if you please, ma’am,” he answered, drawing 
from his pocket a piece of dirty paper clumsily wrapped 
together, which he unfolded, and, taking out the object of 
his care, handed it to her. It was a large and valuable 
gem, bearing a curiously-engraved device, and had appar- 
ently been set in a signet-ring. 

“Where did you get this?” asked Marion, quickly, as 
soon as she had glanced at the stone. And she went on 
to examine it carefully wi'th evident marks of interest. 

“ Well, I — I found it, ma’am, if you please; that is, one 
of the prisoners gave it to me,” said the man, with some 
hesitation. 

“And why do you show it to me?” she asked. 

“ Why, ma’am, I thinks maybe you would like to buy 
it,” he replied. “ It’s too fine for such as me to keep.” 


170 


JIOJV WILL IT END? 


'‘Will you not tell me truly where you found it?** 
demanded Marion, looking directly at the man. 

"Why, haven*t I told you? Though I don’t see why 
I need,** returned the soldier. "We picks up a good 
many things after a fight, and maybe that*s one of ’em,’* 
he continued, evasively. 

Some suspicion or conviction was plainly working in 
Marion’s mind. She turned the stone over and over, 
scrutinizing it minutely. 

" How much do you ask for it?” she inquired, presently. 

The man named his price. 

"If you will tell me honestly how you came by this 
jewel,” said she, "I will buy it and give twice as much 
as you ask.” 

" Why, ma’am, you don’t want to get a poor feller 
like me into a scrape, do you?” he replied, evidently 
tempted by desire for gain, but at the same time reaching 
out his hand for the gem. Marion still held it. 

" No, my friend,” said she, "I have no wish to bring 
you into any trouble. I am very anxious to know how 
and where you obtained possession of this stone. It may 
be of great importance that I should know ; and, if you 
will tell me the whole truth, I will engage that no harm 
shall come to you in consequence.” 

"Yes, miss,” said the man, slowly; "but how do I 
know that?” 

"Do you know who I am?” asked Marion, in reply. 

" No, ma’am,” answered he, after looking at her for a 
moment a little askance. 

" I am the daughter of General Devray, your com- 
mander,” said she. The dignity, majesty even, of hei 
mien, as she said this, was very imposing, and the man 
appeared to be satisfied that she spoke the truth and had 
power to fulfill her promise. 


A GEM GIVES LIGHT, 


171 

^^Why, you see, ma’am, said he, after some further 
hesitation, was one of the company that catched the 
spies, — them that’s now in the fort. I saw ’em take the 
papers out of one of ’em’s boot. And while they was a 
lookin’ at them papers, and the boot was a layin’ there on 
the ground, I felt a kind of curious like to see if there 
weren’t nothin’ else in it. So I jest picks it up and fum- 
bles into it. And when I fumbles into a thing I generally 
goes to the bottom of it, ma’am. Well, clear down there, 
a’ most to the heel of the boot, I feels somethin’ hard. 
^What’s that?’ says I to myself. So I jest pulls it out and 
sees that there jewel, ma’am. Nobody wasn’t a lookin’ 
at me jest then, for they was all a seein’ after the papers, 
and a takin’ care of the prisoners, and a tryin’ to catch 
the horses as weren’t killed. So, you see, ma’am, as this 
was plunder, I jest thought I’d keep it to myself, and say 
nothin’ about it to nobody. And no more have I, ma’am, 
only to you. So I hopes you won’t be hard on a feller, 
miss ; for if the captain should hear of it he’d make a 
devil of a row, and Where’S be the use?” 

^‘Is this the exact ' truth ?” asked Marion, looking 
steadily at the man, while a gleam of unusual animation, 
almost of exultation, could be seen in her face. 

‘‘Yes, ma’am. It’s jest the whole truth, and that’s all 
about it,” he replied, emphatically. 

“Would you swear to this if I should ask you?” she 
demanded. 

“Yes, ma’am. I’d swear to it quick enough, and as 
many times as would suit you; only I’d rather not have 
anything said about it, if you please, ma’am,” he an- 
swered. 

“But I have said that I would hold you harmless, and 
I will do so,” argued the lady. “Yet you must be guided 
by me, and do as I tell you. ’ ’ 


172 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


Well, ma’am, I am willin’ to do that, if you’ll keep 
your word with me,” returned the soldier. 

Then you must be ready to come to me if I send for 
you ; to do what I tell you ; and to answer any questions 
I may ask you about this matter,” said she. 

‘‘I’ll come to you right away, if I’m not on duty,” 
said he. “But if I’m on duty, you know, ma’am ” 

“ Oh, I will take care of that,” interrupted she. “ What 
is your name ?’ ’ 

“Jim Hunter, private in Company A of the Tenth 
Regiment of Cavalry.” 

“Very well, Jim ; here is your money. Remember, you 
are to come to me if I send for you.” 

“I can’t come to you too often, ma’am, and much obliged 
to you.” And, touching his cap, the soldier walked away. 

At this moment Marion caught sight of Trangolar and 
Sister Marguerite, who had just come out of the fort, and, 
putting the stone carefully in her purse, she hurried to 
meet them. 

Trangolar informed her that a message had been received 
from General Devray, stating that he was detained, and re- 
questing the captain to await his coming at the fort ; that 
a dispatch had been sent to ask the general what course 
should be followed in regard to the prisoners, whose real 
names he mentioned ; and that the authorities at the fort 
were now awaiting his answer. 

On hearing this, Marion’s perplexity and distress were 
very much increased. Since she had got possession of the 
gem and learned how the soldier came by it, her anxiety 
to see her father without delay was greater, if possible, than 
it had been before. Now she knew not which way to turn 
for the help so urgently needed. It appeared as if all the 
chances of fortune had combined against her. When they 
looked propitious, it was only to tantalize. An overwhelm- 


A FORERUNNER. 


173 


ing weight of responsibility seemed to rest upon and crush 
her. She felt an almost resistless inclination to yield to 
the torpor of despair, sink down upon the earth, and 
combat no more the current of events against which her 
struggles seemed so vain. By a mighty effort, however, 
she roused herself, and determined to wait, with as much 
calmness as possible, her father’s answer to the dispatch 
which had been sent to him, and then, as a last resort, if 
it should be necessary, ride to the general and obtain at 
least a delay for the accused. 

Meantime Sister Marguerite had told Sister Mary what 
she had discovered at the fort, namely, that the prisoners 
were unquestionably the persons whom they sought, since 
she had seen and recognized Colonel Allerton ; that Cap- 
tain Bulldon had been wounded, but was now apparently 
out of danger, although still very feeble ; that they were 
both held as spies ; and that no strangers would be per- 
mitted to visit them before their trial. 

Both Sister Marguerite and Sister Mary showed great 
commiseration for, and sympathy with, the unfortunate 
officers. As she imparted her information. Sister Mar- 
guerite was affected to tears, and her words, at times, were 
made almost unintelligible by sobs. Sister Mary listened 
with painful attention, clasped her hands, and, raising her 
eyes to heaven, remained a long time in that posture, so 
pale and motionless that she might have been taken for an 
exquisite statue of the Madonna pleading silently with the 
Infinite Father, save that her lips moved, and tears fol- 
lowed one another from their hidden fountains, ran over 
her marble cheeks, and fell upon the neat white covering 
carefully folded on her bosom. 

‘^His will must be accomplished, my child. May He 
give us all grace and strength to submit uncomplainingly ! ’ ’ 
said Sister Mary at length to Sister Marguerite, who, 
IS* 


174 


WILL IT END? 


having thrown herself on her knees and buried her face 
in Sister Mary’s lap, was weeping bitterly. 

‘‘But Trig says they must be convicted, and will cer- 
tainly be executed,” replied Sister Marguerite between her 
sobs. 

“Only if it be His will, my child. And if so, let us 
learn to bear it. Think how light are our sorrows com- 
pared with some that have to be endured. And let us 
remember that our mission as women and Sisters is to 
console. We shall be allowed to see and comfort them 
after their trial. But we can do something before. We 
can let Captain Bulldon know that his mother yet lives to 
pray for him. I have a letter which I will open, and 
probably it will reach him if sent unsealed. It will serve 
to strengthen and prepare him to meet her, should the 
Father of Mercies grant them to enjoy this great happi- 
ness. In his present condition the surprise and shock 
would be too great, unless he were first made ready.” 

Hereupon Sister Mary took from a little satchel, which 
she carried, a letter, unsealed it, and continued, — 

“ Let us go to the officer on duty, and beg him to have 
this letter delivered.” 

Sister Marguerite restrained, as well as she could, her 
tears, and together they walked to the fort. The officer 
who presented himself looked sharply at them, turned 
over the letter, opened it, glanced at its contents, and, 
courteously enough, promised that it should be properly 
delivered without loss of time. 

The Sisters then returned to the room whence they 
came. Only those who, with ready sympathies, have been 
placed in similar situations, can conceive with what agony 
they prayed for the unlucky prisoners, and how fully the 
inmost recesses of their hearts were laid bare before the 
throne of Infinite Pity. 


A DISCLOSURE, 


175 


CHAPTER XXIIL 

A DISCLOSURE. 

After Allerton went out to meet the Honorable Mr. 
Clappergong, Bulldon lay down upon his bed again, and 
gave himself up to earnest and painful reflections on their 
present situation. Before long, however, his thoughts 
turned to the past, to his early home, to his tender mother 
and her sad story, and to his own career thus far, and the 
misfortunes which seemed to throng upon it. Nor was 
the woman who had been so dear to him, and who had 
so shamefully deceived him, absent from his mind. 

After the first passionate fits of jealousy and anger had 
worn themselves out, and he could reason with compara- 
tive calmness, he had not thought it more just or manly, 
though it might be, as the false phrase goes, more high- 
spirited, to cast off and treat with contempt the woman 
whom he had loved, whose heart, in noble and ennobling 
trust, had rested on his own. If, in fact, she were lost 
to him, he could tenderly mourn for her, and for his faith 
lost with her ; he could not despise her, nor even cherish 
anger against her. 

Besides, as has been said, he had begun to doubt his 
own wisdom and justice in so rashly condemning his dar- 
ling unheard. He had loved, and still loved, this woman 
so sincerely that, when the first strong feeling of indigna- 
tion had passed away, his heart yearned towards her and 
sought out every excuse which could be found for, and 
every explanation of, her conduct. And, that some satis- 


176 


WILL IT END? 


factory explanation could be given, he now not only 
wished, but began ardently to hope. He longed to be 
free from the toils of captivity, that he might communi- 
cate in some way with this lady, ask her forgiveness for 
his intemperate haste, and hear her reasons for a scene 
so unexpected and so distressing to him. Then, as his 
mind dwelt more particularly on that scene, and his imagi- 
nation pictured it vividly, he believed, for the moment, 
that no explanation of such duplicity could be made which 
was not itself intended to deceive, and felt that he might 
be justified in denouncing the unfaithful girl as the most 
heartless and unworthy of her sex. 

Yet love and hope soon cast their brilliant colors over 
the future again, and he gave himself up to the delicious 
charm which they wrought. 

From the reverie which now delighted him he was 
aroused by the voice of the soldier who was keeping guard 
in his room. 

Rather a bad business, captain,’* said the man. 

^^Oh, it is only a scratch. I shall be up presently,” 
replied Bulldon, thinking that the soldier alluded to his 
wound. 

Rather an unpleasant way to go up, though, captain,” 
rejoined the man. 

^‘How so, my good friend?” asked Bulldon. 

‘‘Well, there’s no accountin’ for tastes, they say, 
and there may be some as don’t mind bein’ pulled out 
of this world by the neck. But it wouldn’t suit me, any- 
how. I never had a fancy for bangin’,” answered the 
soldier. 

“I must confess that I do not understand you,” said 
the captain. “Why do you speak of hanging?” 

“ Because, when a feller happens to get caught a playin’ 
the spy, like you and your friend out there, it’s the most 


A DISCLOSURE. 


177 


natural thing in the world to speak of, I should say,’* 
responded the other. 

Playing the spy !” exclaimed Bulldon. 

^^Oh, of course not! We all knows that. And we 
all knows, too, that you was disguised in our uniforms 
just to help us, of course ; and your friend the colonel 
there had them papers in his boots just for safe keepin’ ; 
and he hadn’t no notion of ever showin’ ’em -to nobody. 
Oh, it’s plain enough you weren’t a playin’ the spy. And 
that’s what makes it so hard for both of you; for it’s 
mighty hard to have a feller’s neck stretched just for 
doin’ nothin’. And I pities you, upon my soul I does, 
captain.” And, casting a disdainful look on the officer, 
the man walked towards the window. 

Bulldon looked at him some time in silence, unable to 
determine whether he were maliciously trying to tease him, 
or were talking honestly according to his understanding 
of the matter. 

Look here, my good friend,” he said, at length, ^^you 
know I was wounded when the attack on us began, and 
my companion has told me nothing of what happened. 
So you see I am wholly ignorant. Are we indeed accused 
of being spies ? And what do you mean by the papers in 
Colonel Allerton’s boots?” 

^‘What! don’t you really know nothin’ about it? 
That’s odd, though. But I’ll tell you all the same,” 
replied the soldier; and he continued: ‘‘Why, you see, 
we had a pretty sure thing of it from the beginnin’. Mr. 
Clappergong ain’t the man to play when he ain’t right 
certain lhat he’s goin’ to win. He had found out, some- 
how, that you wasn’t what you made believe, and that 
you was a gain’ to take French leave. They say he 
found a good place and listened to what you and the 
colonel was a sayin’. At any rate, he knowed all about 


178 


HOPF WILL IT END? 


it ; and he knowed all about them papers, too, for he 
told our captain to mind and look sharp into the colonel’s 
boots if we caught him. And I heard him say so. Well, 
we went round to the other side of the timber where you 
found us. ’ Cause, you see, he knowed that you was a 
goin’ into the wood cock-sure, if he didn’t stop you. It 
stood to reason that you would come out somewhere about 
there. But, to make certain of you, parties w^ stationed 
to guard the other sides of the timber. That is, they 
was all to look out for you in case you got into the woods; 
for Mr. Clappergong he meant to overhaul you himself 
before you could get into cover ; but, somehow, you was 
too quick for him. Well, when you came out and we 
saw you was a goin’ to run for it, our captain he told us 
to fire, and so we blazed away. I saw that cussed nigger 
go down, and I’ve a kind of a notion that it was my 
bullet as brought him. You went down too, captain, and 
the colonel’s horse took his last leap. Then we just tum- 
bled onto you. You didn’t mind us, and the colonel he 
thought it weren’t no use; so he just does nothin’, but 
tries to bring you to. And then we searched you both. 
But it was a mighty close thing about them papers, though. 
For we looked into the boots, and dove into ’em, and 
felt into ’em, and there weren’t nothin’. But I knowed 
that when Mr. Clappergong says there’s a hare in the 
bush, he’s sure to come out if we beat long enough. So 
I just took up the boots, and I felt ’em all over very care- 
ful. By-an’-by I felt somethin’ kinder thick and stiff like, 
and I thought it rattled. Thinks I, ^ Now I’ve got it, for 
certain.’ So I whips out my knife and just rips up the 
linin’ of the boot, and, sure enough, there’s the papers, 
all safe and tight. The colonel pretended, of course, 
that he didn’t know nothin’ about ’em ; but it weren’t no 
use. He was mighty cunnin’ when he put ’em there ; but 


A DISCLOSURE. 


179 


he ain^t no more cunnin’ than Mr. Clappergong, I can 
tell you. That’s about the whole story, captain : so you 
see there ain’t no great chance for you this time. And 
I’m sorry for you, captain, upon my soul I am.” 

Bulldon listened to this recital in perfect silence, and 
with feelings hard to describe. It seemed impossible to 
believe that Allerton had placed the papers where they 
were found, or that he had any knowledge of them. And 
yet how could the fact of their presence there be ex- 
plained? He suspected treachery, but was hopeless of 
being able to verify his suspicions. Still, he could not 
but admit to himself that honorable gentlemen had been 
known to take their lives in their hands, and run the risk 
of an ignominious death, in order to serve their country 
or their party by bringing from within an enemy’s lines 
such information as only a spy could obtain, and to esteem 
this a worthy and chivalrous action. Spite of his faith in 
that gentleman’s probity, he found himself questioning 
whether Allerton might not have done this thing in the 
excess of his zeal for the side with which they were en- 
gaged. As is already known, the possibility — perhaps 
probability— that an attempt would be made to hold his 
friend and himself as spies had occurred to Bulldon. But 
so unconscious was he of acts which could warrant prose- 
cution on such a charge, and so certain had he been that 
Allerton ‘was pure as himself in honor, that there had 
seemed to him no likelihood, in any event, of their being 
put to serious trouble by an accusation of this kind. But 
now he was suddenly called upon to face a terrible doubt 
and a terrible certainty, — the doubt whether Allerton 
could possibly have been guilty of the conduct alleged 
against him, and the certainty that they must now undergo 
a trial and meet a shameful death. For he felt that they 
had no power to defend themselves against sqch proof as 


i8o 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


the fact which had just come to his knowledge. Life had, 
within a very short time, displayed new allurements for 
him, and the conviction that it was now so soon to end 
in dishonor fell with overwhelming weight upon him ; 
yet the present shock to his confidence in his friend’s loy- 
alty and nobility of soul was even more painful than the 
prospect of a disgraceful and not far-distant death. 

For a time he appeared to be utterly dejected, and lay 
torpid and motionless, like one crushed by disaster. His 
usual buoyancy of spirit had been lessened by his wound 
and by consequent physical weakness, and the soldier’s 
revelation came upon him just when he was indulging in 
bright dreams of the future and of what he would do when 
at length free again. He was, therefore, more easily cast 
down by this sudden blow, and felt more depressed than 
he would himself have believed possible. 

While he was in the midst of all this perplexity and 
trouble, Allerton returned ; and the soldier, saluting 
them, left the room, and took up his station outside the 
door. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

CONFIDENCE RESTORED. 

On coming into the room, Allerton was struck by the 
change in Bulldon’s looks. His bright eyes had lost their 
uniformly cheerful light ; his cheeks were drawn ; and his 
whole face was altered. The smiles, which had never 
before forsaken their lurking-places about his mouth, had 
vanished ; and he lay in a posture of utter lassitude and 
melancholy. The colonel hastened to him and inquired 


CONFIDENCE RESTORED. 


l8l 


anxiously how he felt. Bulldon, slowly, and with ap- 
parent effort, raised himself, and, looking gravely at his 
friend, said, in a low voice, solemnly, — 

‘^Allerton, did you put those papers in your boot?” 

The colonel started, and replied by another question : 

What papers?” 

Those drawings found in your boot when we were 
taken,” replied the wounded man. 

‘^What do you mean?” asked Allerton, in return, 
evasively, anxious that his friend should be kept in igno- 
rance of their actual situation as long as possible. 

'^Do not use subterfuge with me,” urged Bulldon, with 
more animation. have learned all about it. The 

guard told me the whole story while you were away. And 
I put a fair question to you, under the circumstances. ’ ’ 

‘^Was it necessary for you to ask me such a ques- 
tion?” replied Allerton, evidently somewhat hurt. ^‘You 
should know me well enough to be certain that I did 
not. I had no knowledge even of the existence of those 
papers till I saw them taken from their place of conceal- 
ment. And up to this moment I do not know what they 
were.” 

‘‘Thank God for that!” ejaculated Bulldon. 

“Did you believe I had done this thing?” asked the 
colonel. 

“No, never. I felt sure that you did not. But — for- 
give me — it was possible, you know; and I wanted to hear 
you deny it. I could not understand such a thing, — I 
was so much surprised. To be shot, or hanged, on a sus- 
picion, or even a probability, conscious of his own integ- 
rity, and with a doubt in his favor which might become 
a certainty in the minds of all candid and fairly-disposed 
persons, could be borne with equanimity by a brave man, 
when there was no help for it. But to have the accusation 

i6 


i 82 


WILL IT END? 


of dishonor, to all appearances, conclusively proved 
against him, — this was too strong, too bitter, and I confess 
that I have given way to its overpowering force. Let it 
pass now. You are all right. I am not deceived in you, 
Allerton, my friend. But the possibility that I ought to 
doubt you was torture to me.^’ And Bulldon changed 
his position, the expression of pain left his face, and he 
seemed to rest at ease, like a sleeping child freed from a 
troubled dream. 

‘‘Neither could I understand it,^^ said Allerton. “I 
was thunderstruck. But I suspect now how it happened.’^ 

“What do you mean? Clappergong?’* 

“ Exactly.’’ 

“But how to prove it?” 

“That is impossible, I suppose. He has us in his 
power. I have just had an interview with the Honorable 
gentleman. He proposed to get us off scot-free if I would 
help him to obtain Marion for his wife by telling an in- 
famous lie ” 

“And you knocked him down?” 

^<No ” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“But I wanted very much to do so, and was only 
restrained by a feeling of self-respect and prudence on 
your account; for I hoped he might be induced to use in 
your favor the potent influence which he boasts. He has 
no rivalry with you; and I do want to get you out of this 
scrape. ’ ’ 

“It is like you, dear Allerton. But do not think of 
that. I should not. Neither my self-respect nor my 
prudence would keep me from striking a cur, if he de- 
served it, or from flinging the Honorable Mr. Clapper- 
gong out of the window, if I had an opportunity.” 

“I did not wish you to know anything about all this. 


CONFIDENCE RESTORED, 183 

my poor friend, so long as it could be prevented,’* said 
Allerton, tenderly. 

Fudge, man ! I am not a child nor a woman. Did 
you think I could not bear it as well as you?” replied 
Bulldon. 

‘‘You were wounded and weak ” 

“That does not matter. We could have helped each 
other.” 

“I do not think there is any help in the case. The 
court-martial will surely condemn us, and we shall die 
like dogs, without even the satisfaction of having merited 
our deaths at the hands of our enemies.” 

“Yes, but they will put a stop to all these tantalizing 
dreams ; strangle all false hopes ; end these struggles 
after we know not what; place us beyond the reach of 
friendly treachery ; terminate all betrayal of affection ; 
free us from unmerited scorn, from undeserved oppro- 
brium, from the stings of meanness, and the vexation of 
beholding the filthy worship of this world. There will 
be satisfaction in that, my friend, — satisfaction in that. 
Let us so regard and so meet it.” 

An accent of bitterness was audible in Bulldon’s voice 
as he began his reply ; but it quickly disappeared, giving 
way to the calm, deep tones of earnestness and sincerity. 

At this moment the guard entered, and handed a letter 
to Allerton, who glanced at the superscription. 

“ Here is a letter for you, Bulldon,” he said. 

“For me? A letter for me?” asked the invalid, won- 
dering how a letter could reach him there, and by whom 
it could have been written. His pale face flushed with 
eagerness as the thought darted through his mind that it 
might be from his mother, — or from his sweetheart, making 
the so-much-desired explanation, and opening the way 
for his return to the happiness he had enjoyed in the 


i84 


HOW WILL IT END? 


assurance of her love. He could not prevent this thought, 
though his reason at the same time told him that the wish 
which suggested it could not be realized in the strange and 
painful situation in which he had been so unexpectedly 
placed. Opening the letter without looking at the super- 
scription, he exclaimed, joyfully, ‘‘ It is from my mother 
Then reclining again at full length, overcome with sudden 
emotion, he silently pressed the letter to his bosom, while 
tears suffused his eyes and coursed slowly down his face. 

‘‘Read it aloud to me, please, Allerton,” he said, at 
length. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE WORDS OF THE LETTER. 

The letter was without date. Allerton seated himself 
on the side of the invalid’s bed, and read as follows : 

“My darling Son, — I know not where or when this 
letter may reach you, but I trust that it will, at length, 
bring joy to your heart. I have heard of you from time 
to time, and rejoice in the belief that you are still alive 
and prosperous, nobly pursuing an honorable course in 
the world, and winning that respect which upright con- 
duct merits. I feel assured, therefore, that you have not 
read the letter which I left for you with so solemn an 
injunction to guard it unopened till your final hour should 
be near. That letter you may now read. From it you 
will learn that I retired to a convent on leaving you, and 
my reasons for so doing. You will also learn my sad 
story, and understand how I was forced to be the unnatural 


THE WORDS OF THE LETTER, 185 

mother I have seemed. And when you shall have read it, 
I know that your generous heart will forgive me for so 
cruelly deserting you. Knowing all, you will pity me, 
nor love me less. In a convent I hoped to find the re- 
wards of self-denial, and all the serene joys of a purely 
religious life. And this hope for awhile consoled me. 
But I did not gain, as I expected, the comforts of con- 
scious well-doing. Doubts entered my mind, and I could 
not banish them. They grew more and more importunate, 
and made me question myself constantly whether I were 
really in the path of duty. And the more I questioned 
the more it appeared to me that I was shunning, rather 
than seeking and performing, my Master’s business. I 
began to feel that I had no right selfishly to withdraw 
from the world and seek only my own salvation, trying 
to escape from trials, instead of enduring them, avoiding 
any occasion to minister personally to my fellow-creatures, 
and burying my talent in the earth. These words of our 
blessed Master, ‘ I was an hungered, and ye gave me no 
meat : I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink : I was a 
stranger, and ye took me not in : naked, and ye clothed 
me not : sick and in prison, and ye visited me not. In- 
asmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye 
did it not to me,’ were always sounding in my ears. Yet 
the force of tradition, of precept, example, and educa- 
tion, combined with that of a certain false sentiment, 
more romantic than religious, was such that I persisted a 
long time in my determination. For at first I looked 
upon all these doubts and questionings as snares and 
temptations of the devil. I prayed for divine light and 
guidance, and at length, seeing my way clearly, resolved 
to come forth from my retirement at the first fit oppor- 
tunity, and do what I could for the hungry, the thirsty, 
the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned; 

16* 


i86 


HOW WILL IT END? 


seeking all occasions to comfort and help any, ^ even the 
least of these, ^ for His sake. 

About this time I heard of your father^s decease, and, 

not long after, learned that Lady was also dead, 

ignorant, happily, to the last, of the wrong which he had 
done her. News found its way slowly into the remote 
convent whither I had gone, and some time had elapsed 
since the demise of these personages before I heard of 
their deaths. Had I not already made up my mind, I 
could no longer have doubted what course I ought to 
pursue. If the late Lord X. had not indeed cruelly de- 
ceived me, the way was now open to rectify, so far as its 
nature permitted, all the evil which I had been forced to 
inflict upon you. I could also vindicate my own con- 
duct and character to my family. Perhaps affection for 
you, possibly the pride I felt in you, might now have had 
something to do in forming my decision. 

‘‘But I humbly trust that, independently of these con- 
siderations, I had found the right answer to all the ques- 
tions that troubled me, — which was, that I should follow 
the example of our Master, who went about doing good. 

“ I left the convent, and, as a Sister of Charity, began 
the pious work of reconciling my family to me, and of 
doing justice to you, my ever-darling child. I wrote 
to my brother, who, in your presence, had refused to 
recognize me, and told him all my story. I trust that he 
has received my letter ; although the civil wars and com- 
motions in the country where you are, and in which he 
lives, may have prevented its reaching his hands. I ar- 
dently hope to hear from him that we are again brother 
and sister, and that I may then have the happiness of 
making you acquainted with the name and persons of 
your mother's family. I have kept this a secret from you 
so long that you will indulge me in continuing so to do. 


THE WORDS OF THE LETTER, 


187 


until I shall learn that you will be welcomed to your 
mother^s home and kindred as is due to your honorable 
relationship and your worthy character. 

After all my preparations were made, much time was 
consumed in reaching the place of your nativity. You had 
already been there, on your return from the East, and 
departed again to the country where you now are. When 
I knew this, I felt great sorrow that I had come so late, 
and had thus lost the occasion of meeting you and making 
all my confession and explanation with your dear hand 
in mine. 

‘‘I soon ascertained that, true to. his promise, your 
father had left the necessary proofs of our marriage, and 
of your right to succeed to the family estates and title. 
It seemed then that but one thing was wanting to my 
happiness, which was, to clasp you again in my arms and 
impart to you, face to face, the knowledge of this tardy 
justice. 

I have written thus fully in order that you should not 
think your mother had acted with unbecoming fickleness 
and levity, in leaving the world, and afterwards returning 
to it in some measure. 

‘‘The estate and title which were your father’s are 
now yours, made so by all needful proceedings and 
forms of law, and may be assumed by you whenever 
you will. 

“ But I could not remain away from you, my dear son. 
I • have determined to join you. The friendly Sister of 
our order, by whose hand this letter will be delivered for 
you, is to let me know as soon as she shall have discovered 
your place of detention ; for I have learned that you were 
taken prisoner some time ago. Then I shall speedily 
come to you, if our heavenly Father permit. 

“What I have here written will prepare you for that 


i88 


V/ILL IT END? 


joyhil meeting, which God grant may not long be 
delayed. 

I am already provided with means to open the way to 
you, when I shall hear where you are, and be summoned 
by Sister Mary, unless, before that happen, you shall 
have been exchanged and return to your mother’s arms. 

Take fresh courage, then, my brave boy, for it has 
pleased the All-Merciful to give us the hope of brighter, 
happier, and more useful days. 

And know, my darling, that your mother never ceases 
to pray for and love you ardently, as the one earthly ob- 
ject of her affection. 

Hoping, with eager expectation, to embrace you soon 
on earth, and, if not, by-and-by to meet you in heaven, 
I close this letter, and wait. 

Your loving mother, 

Gertrude.’* 


CHAPTER XXVL 

TEMPTED. 

As Allerton finished reading the letter, he laid it down, 
open, by his side, and looked at Bulldon. Neither of 
them spoke for some minutes. How could the colonel 
congratulate his friend, when their condition was such that 
this tender and ^ffectionate mother’s letter seemed almost 
like a wanton mockery ? The captain felt no disposition to 
speak. His emotions were too various and powerful to 
find expression in words. It was to him as if, when his 
life’s brief day of darkness and storms was about to close, 
the clouds had suddenly broken away, and the setting sun 


TEMPTED, 


189 


come out, gilding every object with a soft glory, and, for 
a few moments, causing the world to appear one scene of 
beauty, fit for the endless abode of love and peace ; only 
to make him regret its brightness, dread and shrink from 
the untried storm and gloomier night so near at hand, as 
he, otherwise, could not have done. Wounded and weak 
as he was, he thought more of his mother than of him- 
self, and of the terrible disappointment and affliction in 
store for her who had already suffered so much and so un- 
justly. In health, as in sickness, she was always first in 
his mind. And now, as in imagination he saw her crushed 
to the earth by this unexpected and most dreadful blow, 
he was entirely overcome. The joyful anticipations which 
she felt, and which, in other circumstances, he would so 
ardently have shared, only mkde his grief the sharper. 
His nervous system had not yet recovered its tone, and 
he could not restrain the tears which again flowed in 
abundance from his closed eyes. 

‘‘ My poor Bulldon, my poor friend,’^ said Allerton, at 
length, ‘‘would to Heaven that I could invent someway 
for your escape !’* 

“A vain wish, my dear fellow! do not think of it,^^ 
returned the other. “ They have us securely this time, 
for I am too weak to help myself or you in any such under- 
taking, and shall be till all is finished. 

“As for myself, I have no great reason to repine,’^ said 
the colonel, softly. “It makes very little difference to 
anybody whether I live or die, only I should have been 
grateful could I have ended my life by a death not so en- 
tirely useless ; I mean one that could, in some way, have 
served my country and the cause in which I am engaged. 
There is pleasure in a voluntary sacrifice. The merit and 
the consolation of this even are denied us, since we are 
enforced victims. I could, however, submit to such a fate, 


190 


HOW WILL IT END? 


I think, without murmuring, if you were free. For you 
have now every inducement to live, and every hope that 
can make life alluring. I tell you frankly, as becomes our 
friendship and our solemn situation, that I am in a great 
strait. My heart misgives me, and I begin to doubt if I 
did right in refusing to accept Clappergong’s proposition 
for your sake. I must not, and cannot, sacrifice you for 
what is, perhaps, after all, an overscrupulous sense of rec- 
titude and honor. I will send for him and tell him that 
I accede to his proposal on condition that you be at once 
set at liberty and furnished with a safe-conduct back to 
our lines, if you think I should. Counsel me, my friend, 
for, if never before, I now earnestly wish to do what is 
just and right, — my whole duty.^^ 

^^Do not talk nonsense, Allerton,’’ replied the invalid, 
a little impatiently; and, above all, do not say any- 
thing which ought to offend me. You shall do nothing 
for me which you would not do for yourself. I had 
rather die a thousand times than see you yield a hair’s 
breadth of honor to that man, or swerve from the line of 
your conscious uprightness. A life preserved by the sac- 
rifice of your just scruples would be worse than valueless 
to me. This may sound like fine talk, but it is only the 
truth. It is not a time to indulge in rhetoric. Let us 
hear no more of this, but take our chances together, as is 
right, and meet them with readiness, like brave and honest 
men and true friends.” 

I assure you I spoke sincerely; for, indeed, I am in 
doubt,” said Allerton, gently. 

‘‘Then doubt no more,” returned Bulldon. “I am 
sure you were not wrong. What you are thinking of 
would tarnish your death and disgrace my life. I feel 
keenly the generous and noble impulse which alone makes 
such a thought as you have suggested possible to you ; and 


TEMPTED. 


191 

it touches me deeply, — more deeply than I can tell you. 
But it cannot be, my friend, — it cannot be. So put your 
mind at rest. You have done right. I wish this wound 
had not made me quite so much a woman ; but I shall do 
my best to play the man. I could almost wish that letter 
had never reached me. How did it come ?’ * 

The guard handed it to me, as you saw.’’ 

^‘But where did he get it? And who is Sister Mary? 
And where is she ? Why does she not come to see me, as 
she ought ? It is clear, from that letter, that she has 
lately seen my mother. Besides, we are in prison, and I 
am sick, and we are both hungry, — are you not hungry, 
Allerton ? — and strangers, though maybe not the least of 
the fellows about here, and she ought to visit us, etc.,” 
said Bulldon, smiling, — rather dolefully, though, — his old 
spirit rising in spite of his mournful situation and the 
grief to which he had just before given way. 

will find out what I can about it,” said Allerton. 
And, going to the door, he begged the guard to ask the 
officer of the day to come to them. That officer cour- 
teously complied with the request ; but to the colonel’s 
question he could only answer that the letter had been left 
by two Sisters of Charity, with an earnest petition that it 
be delivered to the person whose name was upon it. To 
Allerton ’s question whether they had asked to see the 
prisoners, the officer replied that they had not. Indeed, 
the Sisters, having been told that no one would be allowed 
to visit the accused before their trial, had delicately re- 
frained from making such a request. The officer inquired 
respectfully after Build on’s health, and was about to take 
his leave. Allerton followed him to the door, and, in a 
low voice, prayed to know when their trial was to take 
place. The officer informed him that they were awaiting 
orders from the general commanding, to whom the case 


192 


irOJV WILL IT END? 


had been reported, which were now momentarily expected ; 
and that, as soon as these orders * should be received, a 
court would probably convene, since Captain Bulldon 
seemed to be strong enough to appear at the trial. 

The two officers saluted, and Allerton returned to his 
friend, who had taken up his mother’s letter, and was 
trying to read it. » 


CHAPTER XXVIL 

CHECKED, NOT MATED. 

Notwithstanding the Honorable Pestyfog Clapper- 
gong had failed to make Allerton an unwilling accomplice 
in his scheme for obtaining Marion’s hand and fortune, 
he did not for a moment relax his determination to carry 
that scheme to a successful issue. As a last resort he 
resolved to wring a consent from the lady herself. Por 
that purpose he asked of her an interview at the house 
where she was waiting, with feverish impatience, her 
father’s reply to the dispatch which had been sent him in 
regard to the prisoners. Trangolar was to communicate 
the substance of this reply to her at the earliest moment 
possible. Although that officer was convinced that Aller- 
ton and Bulldon were in reality spies, and must be so 
adjudged by military law, he felt the kindest sympathy 
for Marion, and every disposition to assist her efforts in 
behalf of those gentlemen. 

The Honorable Pestyfog obtained leave to see Miss 
Devray by sending her a note, in which he told her that 
he could propose a way by which she might effect the 


CHECKED, NOT MATED. 


193 


release of the two officers held as spies at the fort. But 
it was with the greatest repugnance that she acceded to 
his request. She distrusted the honesty of his purpose ; 
yet, believing it possible that, for some reason unknown 
to her, he might be willing to aid in accomplishing her 
wishes, she would not deprive herself and the prisoners 
of the chance thus offered. Of his ability to assist her 
she had no doubt. 

He was received with dignified civility, although habit- 
ual good manners could not entirely hide her feelings of 
aversion, and was asked at once to explain more fully 
the object of his visit. 

have every reason to believe that, if I undertake 
the defense of the prisoners, in whom you feel so lively 
an interest, I shall succeed in making them appear inno- 
cent, or, at any rate, prevent their conviction, — which, 
practically, will amount to the same thing, said he. 

‘^Then why do you not do it, sir?” asked Marion. 

If you believe them innocent, and that you alone can 
prove them so, common humanity ” 

‘^Oh, my dear Miss Marion, I did not say that,” 
interrupted the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. did 

not say that I believed them innocent, but that I could 
make them appear innocent, — a great difference, you 
see. If I believed them innocent, as you were, doubt- 
less, going to say, I ought, in common justice, to defend 
them without demanding any fee or reward. Common 
humanity would require this. Such was your thought. 
Now, common humanity does not require anything of the 
kind. Common humanity has a different way, quite a 
business-like way, of looking at such matters.” 

‘‘Do you mean to say, then,” demanded Marion, 
“that, though convinced of their guilt, you would for fee 
or reward screen them from punishment?” 

17 


194 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


have not said that, either, replied the Honorable 
gentleman. You will observe that I leave the question 
of their guilt or innocence in doubt. Of this doubt I am 
willing to give them all the benefit. I am prepared even 
to do more, — for a consideration. Something must be 
allowed to the claims of friendship and affection. 

do not clearly apprehend your meaning,’^ said 
Marion. 

My meaning is this, returned the Honorable poli- 
tician. ^‘Without my interference the doubt of their 
guilt will not sufficiently appear to cause their acquittal. 
Their conviction will then be considered just by all men. 
I am willing to take advantage of this doubt, and, with 
it, quiet all my scruples, for your sake, provided you will 
give me such evidence of your interest in their welfare, 
and of your desire to rescue them from the fate which 
threatens, as shall warrant the interposition of my labor 
and influence in their favor. 

‘‘And what must that evidence be?** asked Marion. 
“First tell me,** he replied, “whether, if I should 
bring about their discharge, or in any way assure their 
safety, you would esteem it a worthy act, and be willing 
to regard me more favorably for so doing.** 

“Certainly I should!** exclaimed she, warmly, rising 
and taking a step towards him, with her beautiful hands 
extended unconsciously in the impulsive earnestness of the 
moment. “I should be most grateful to you, more so than 
I can tell, and could never think unkindly of you again. 
Oh, you will do this, — I know you will !** she continued, 
entreatingly, putting her hands together and looking at 
him with pleading eyes which were suffused with tears. 

“Would you then consent and promise to marry me 
the day that they shall be free from the charge against 
them ?’ * asked the Honorable Pestyfog. 


CHECKED, NOT MATED, 


195 


cried Marion, drawing herself up, while her 
whole appearance changed, till she looked cold and mo- 
tionless as a statue. I was not prepared for this,” she 
continued, after a short pause. 

Such a promise from you,” said the Honorable gen- 
tleman, is the only evidence of your interest in this case 
which will satisfy my scruples sufficiently to permit me to 
interfere ; and only on receiving that promise as my fee 
will I interfere.” 

I have already given you my answer to that question,” 
said Marion, her cheeks burning with indignation. ‘‘I 
have requested you not to continue this persecution. This 
is no time for its renewal.” 

^‘But consider,” broke in the Honorable Mr. Clapper- 
gong, I have only proposed that you should decide the 
fate of these men. If you think them guilty, let them 
suffer, by all means. No one will feel more satisfaction 
than I at the punishment of their most treacherous and 
unworthy conduct. But if, as it appears, you think them 
innocent, you have the means of setting them free. For 
your sake, not for theirs, am I willing to use my power in 
their favor.” 

Use it, then, and be assured of my lasting gratitude,” 
pleaded Marion. 

Your gratitude alone would not tempt me to run the 
risk of hindering the due course of justice,” answered the 
Honorable politician. ^‘Only the promise of your love, 
secured by your consent to become my wife, could over- 
come my doubts and induce me to take their part. I con- 
fess freely that I would incur the risk of committing a 
wrong act, in such a case as this, for the reward of your 
love. I cannot pledge you, for myself, more than I have 
already offered. Think well of it. I am certain, and I 
say it on the honor of a gentleman, that without my aid 


196 


HOW WILL IT END? 


those persons will surely be convicted, and as surely exe- 
cuted. Love is selfish, and I am not magnanimous enough 
to save the life of my rival — for such I now know him 
to be — simply to restore him to you, and deprive myself 
of the dearest hope I have. You see that I speak frankly. 
Consider carefully what I say, before you refuse.^* 

What assurance have I that you can do as you say?’^ 
asked the lady. 

The court will be composed chiefly, if not entirely, 
of volunteer officers who were politicians before they 
obtained their commissions,^* answered the Honorable 
gentleman. ‘‘They were my friends and associates. They 
owe their places, principally, to me. I have done them 
many a good turn, which they will not forget, and may 
perhaps be able to do them many more j and bad ones 
too, for that matter. They know this, and will not turn 
on me now. They know, too, that I have helped them 
in carrying through more than one profitable scheme, — all 
for the good of the country, you understand. When a 
politician is on the bench, queer things may be done in 
court, and very original decisions procured. Lawyers 
are prejudiced in favor of precedents and authorities; 
regular officers have bigoted notions of honor and duty ; 
but a court of politicians can be governed by reason, — 
that is, by motives. I am sure beforehand of my influ- 
ence with the court. 'Besides, you have my word of 
honor ** 

“The same word of honor,** exclaimed Marion, inter- 
rupting him, with flashing eyes, “ that you gave to poor 
dead Clementine ** 

“Dead!** repeated the Honorable lover, starting. 
Then a look of vindictive satisfaction appeared in his dark 
face. 

“Dead, by your hand!** cried Marion, excitedly. 


CHECKED, NOT MATED, 


197 


^^The same word of honor/ ^ she continued, ^^with which 
you will pledge the innocence of these unfortunate pris- 
oners, if I bribe you to do it ; the word of honor that you 
will tender to prove their guilt, if I refuse; the honor 
which skulked and listened to betray honorable enemies 
using allowable means to secure their freedom ; the honor 
which would compel a woman to marry you through 
her love for another. I place no reliance upon such 
honor, sir. I know very well that it will not prevent your 
using any means in your power to effect the sacrifice of 
the unfortunate gentlemen who have been placed in their 
present unhappy position through your cowardly ofificious- 
ness. But, as I have told you before, I will save them 
without your help, and in spite of you.^^ 

‘‘Calm yourself. Miss Marion,’^ said the Honorable 
Mr. Clappergong, “and think dispassionately of the con- 
sequences, before you refuse to accept my proposition.” 

“ I have considered sufficiently,” replied the persecuted 
girl, “ and have given you my answer. I am sure that 
the gentlemen to whom you have particularly alluded 
would rather die a hundred deaths than be saved by such 
an act as that which you propose.” 

“ This is your final answer?” asked the Honorable Pes- 
tyfog, while his face assumed an expression more than 
usually sinister. 

Marion thought a moment before she replied. It 
occurred to her that an occasion might possibly arise 
in which Colonel Clappergong’ s services could be used 
without compromising herself, and that it would be 
impolitic, under the circumstances, to throw away this 
chance. 

“ I cannot tell to what straits despair of all other means 
might compel me, ’ ’ she said, at length, in answer to his ques- 
tion. ‘ ‘ But, for the present, I cannot come to your terms. I 
17* 


198 


IfOJV WILL IT END? 


shall first see what I can do myself, and I tell you so 
frankly. If I should fail, and no hope be left me save in 
your help, I will not now say what I might do. At this 
time I desire to be alone, and cannot well discuss any 
question.’’ 

I shall take my leave, convinced that you will yet 
recall me. And let it be before the decision of the court 
is rendered, otherwise you will ask too late. I shall be 
sustained and encouraged, in the mean time, by the hope 
which you have now given me, confident that I shall not 
have long to wait.” 

And, saying this, the Honorable gentleman withdrew, 
burning with pent-up rage, yet counting upon final suc- 
cess, resolved as he was that Marion should be driven to 
despair of all other succor, and consent to buy his aid for 
her friends at the price which he had named. 

Since Marion had told him that Clementine was dead, 
he had felt a nervous anxiety to reach the cottage where 
he had last seen that unfortunate girl, to join the mourners, 
utter protestations of woe, display a heart-breaking grief, 
talk of his torn affections, thus cruelly disappointed, as he 
was, of a wife, and of such a wife, — without equal, — and 
thus beguile the sorrowful friends of the deceased, and 
especially her brother, should he be there, in order to 
watch for, or make, an opportunity and secure the paper 
of which he had so much reason to dread the discovery 
by others. He should bind himself to no engagement, 
and in no wise limit his freedom by proclaiming, now, 
that he had been pledged to, and was about to marry, the 
unhappy Clementine ; therefore he could see no objection 
to the course which he wished to follow. But, much as 
he desired to pursue this plan at once, he was constrained 
to defer its execution for awhile. To-morrow would not 
be too late to carry it into effect. For the present he 


CHECKED, NOT MATED. 


199 


could not leave the more urgent business which he had in 
hand. 

Marion ^s trouble and solicitude were much increased by 
this last interview with the Honorable Pestyfog. She now 
well knew that all this man’s power would be used against 
the prisoners, in order to reduce her to the dreadful alter- 
native of sacrificing herself or Allerton. She sank upon a 
chair and covered her face with her hands the moment 
the Honorable Mr. Clappergong had disappeared. But 
she could not remain still. She arose, walked the floor 
with unequal steps, pressed her hands to her temples, 
clasped them upon her bosom, lifted them towards heaven ; 
while from her lips came a supplication for help, like the 
unconscious moaning of a person in extreme pain. She 
heard footsteps, and then a knock at her door, which was 
opened ere she could answer the summons, and, turning, 
she saw Trangolar standing before her. 

Has it arrived?” she asked, eagerly, approaching him. 

‘‘Yes,” he answered. “ It is as I suppose.” 

“Tell me, — tell me all !” she urged, excitedly. 

“The general directs a court-martial to sit without 
delay,” said Trangolar, gravely. 

“Well, — and then?” still urged Marion. 

“And, if found guilty, that the prisoners be executed 
at once,” he continued. 

Marion winced as if she had received a blow, and stag- 
gered to a seat, where she sat for a few moments as though 
stupefied. Trangolar regarded her in silence, with a look 
of deep commiseration. 

“But is he, — is my father not coming here himself?” 
she asked, presently, arousing herself with an effort. 

“ He says nothing about it in the dispatch,” answered 
Trangolar. “I am, however, as you know, awaiting him 
here, by his orders.” 


200 


HOW WILL IT END? 


^^Then I must go to him immediately/’ said she, 
nervously. Will you go with me, Captain Trangolar?” 

would certainly go with you, and with the greatest 
alacrity, if I could, Miss Marion,” he replied; ‘‘all the 
more because it is a wild time to be riding, and you will 
have to pass near the enemy’s lines. But I cannot. My 
orders are such that I must not go far away. If you will 
be advised by me, dear Miss Marion, do not undertake 
this journey. Wait for your father here.” 

“ Oh, I cannot, I cannot ! It would be too late. Cass 
can go with me, and a woman may travel alone anywhere 
in this country and be safe,” answered Marion, already 
moving towards the door. 

“ But you may fall into the hands of some of the enemy’s 
scouting-parties, ” argued Trangolar, trying to dissuade 
her. “We know that they are in the neighborhood, but 
not yet exactly where.” 

“I do not fear them,” she replied. “They would let 
me go again when they knew my errand. I only fear 
loss of time and that I shall arrive too late.” And, going 
out, she summoned Cass, who was waiting near by, and 
directed him to bring up their horses. 

The distance which she would have to traverse was 
such that, by hard riding, she could go and come back in 
a few hours ; and Trangolar assured her that, if hindered 
by no accident, she would be' able to return before the 
court, which was not yet organized, could conclude its 
deliberations. 

Mounting her horse, she rode swiftly away, followed by 
Cass. 


ENTOILED. 


201 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

ENTOILED. 

The fort at which Allerton and Bulldon were confined 
was situated near a small village, where was a tavern, the 
favorite resort of the Honorable Mr. Clappergong when 
in that part of the country, where he passed for a person 
of great distinction. At this tavern the Sisters Mary 
and Marguerite had stopped, but as yet the Honorable 
Pestyfog was ignorant of the fact. Marion, wishing to 
avoid notice as much as possible, had gone to the house 
of an humble friend, to whom she had often rendered 
important services. But the Sisters preferred to stay where 
they should be most likely to receive immediate informa- 
tion of all that was going on. The house in which 
Marion rested was on the border of the village, some 
distance from the tavern, and the most direct way from 
one to the other passed near the fort. 

As the Honorable Mr. Clappergong, after leaving Miss 
Devray, walked towards the inn, the thought struck him 
that she might have communicated, or attempted to com- 
municate, with the prisoners. The jealousy of rivalry, 
rather than that of love, quickened his suspicions, and 
he determined to find out if they were correct. With this 
purpose he turned aside to the fort and asked if any one 
had been there to see or bring any message to the ac- 
cused. In reply, he was told that two Sisters of Charity 
had called with an open letter, which was addressed and 
had been delivered to one of the prisoners. On hearing 
this, the Honorable gentleman’s mind turned at once to 


202 


HOW WILL IT END? 


the scene in which he had played a part at Clementine’s 
cottage the preceding night. He could not distinctly 
remember all that had occurred, nor what he had said ; 
for he had been too much excited by strong drink and 
evil passions to have a clear recollection of what took 
place. He did know, however, and the knowledge had 
haunted him like a spectre, that two Sisters of Charity had 
suddenly appeared from an inner room, where it was most 
probable they had overheard everything that was spoken 
by him. His apprehensions on this account stirred his 
imagination, and in the very dimness of his memory what 
had actually been said and done was magnified to fright- 
ful proportions ; and he was tormented by what seemed 
to him a certainty that he had uttered in a loud voice all 
which he might have said, and, if so, that not only would 
the testimony of the Sisters be very powerful to aid in 
acquitting the prisoners, but also in convicting him of 
such practices as must be fatal to the success of all his 
schemes, even if his life were not also put in danger. He 
felt assured that the two Sisters who had been at the fort 
were those to whom he had involuntarily, as he believed, 
exposed his real purposes and character. He must, there- 
fore, at once take measures to thwart any efforts which 
they might make in favor of the accused, and, as a neces- 
sary consequence, against himself. He readily conceived 
a plan to accomplish this end. Nothing could be learned 
at the fort concerning them except the fact that they had 
been there, and, after leaving the letter and respectfully 
but earnestly making the request that it be delivered, had 
quietly gone away. To the astonishment of the officer 
on duty, the Honorable Mr. Clappergong announced to 
him that these two women were, in all probability, spies ; 
in fact, that this probability was sustained by the strongest 
•circumstantial evidence, and that a secret understanding. 


ENTOILED. 


203 


doubtless, existed between them and the prisoners ; that 
it was of the utmost importance to prevent any further 
communication between the accused and these suspected 
persons ; that every means should be used to arrest the 
women, and that they should be kept in close custody till 
after the trial of the officers, when their own examination 
could take place. 

This information, backed by the Honorable Pesty fog’s 
suggestions and plausible arguments, was reported to the 
commander of the post, who at once gave the necessary 
orders, and prepared to follow the course pointed out by 
the sagacious, earnest, and distinguished patriot. 

Having discharged this duty, the Honorable gentleman 
continued his way towards the tavern. 

Now, it happened that the Sisters Mary and Marguerite, 
after some time spent in commiserating the prisoners, 
had begun to cast about in their minds to see if some way 
of helping them could not be found. 

Do you know,” said Sister Marguerite, ^^that I think 
the terrible man who treated poor Clementine so fright- 
fully last night has had something to do with this dreadful 
accusation ?’ ’ 

‘‘Why so?” asked Sister Mary. 

“Do you not remember what he said?” questioned 
Sister Marguerite in reply. 

“He said so many horrible things,” observed Sister 
Mary. 

“But I recollect distinctly one sentence which he 
uttered about a spy,” said Sister Marguerite. 

“I cannot call it to mind. What was it?” returned 
Sister Mary. 

“He said, ‘I am going to catch a spy to-night, — a spy 
who does not know himself that he is one, — ^and that 
will be doing the State some service. At any rate, the 


204 


I/O IV WILL IT END? 


fools who believe themselves the State will think so. I 
made a spy of him myself on purpose to catch him.* I 
think those were the very words. The sense, at least, is 
the same; I am sure of it,” replied Sister Marguerite. 

^^Ah, I do remember now !” said Sister Mary. 

‘^And these poor fellows were captured last night, it 
appears. If we could only show that his remark was in 
relation to them,** continued Sister Marguerite. 

‘^Perhaps your brother. Captain Trangolar, could help 
us. Why not send for him and ask his advice?** suggested 
Sister Mary. 

‘‘I do not know where to send now,** replied Sister 
Marguerite. He said he was going to take a look at the 
outposts, and should not be back for an hour or two.** 

Just at this moment they heard a voice, which seemed 
not altogether unknown to them, declaiming in front of 
the inn. Impelled by curiosity to know who was speak- 
ing, they approached the window, and saw the Honorable 
Mr. Clappergong standing, with his face towards them, 
talking oracularly to a number of persons, his constituents 
and followers, who were listening with every sign of ad- 
miration and approval. The Honorable gentleman looked 
up and instantly recognized the two women. Stopping 
abruptly in his discourse, he turned and walked rapidly 
away. In a few minutes he was at the fort ; and, in as 
many more, an officer, with a squad of soldiers, appeared 
at the tavern and took the Sisters into custody. Vainly 
did they plead their innocence. The letters and papers 
which might have confirmed their statements and proved 
iheir safeguard had been left, with the little luggage which 
they had brought, at the headquarters, when they set out 
afoot on their errand of mercy, in the belief that they 
should have no further need of them. In vain Sister Mar- 
guerite asserted that Captain Trangolar was her brother. 


ENTOILED. 


205 


The officer replied that if Captain Trangolar would cor- 
roborate what they said and vouch for their good faith 
his word would be sufficient, doubtless, to secure their 
unconditional release ; but that until he should return, or 
until their innocence should otherwise appear, they must 
submit to be detained as prisoners. He was very sorry to 
be disobliging, but only discharged his duty in obedience 
to orders. And the two women were escorted, under 
guard, to the fort, and shut up in a small but comfortable 
room. 

At first the Sisters were comforted by the belief that 
Marguerite’s brother would soon return, and come to their 
relief. But as time passed, and he did not appear, their 
impatience and anxiety increased till it became agonizing. 

It was not for want of inclination that Captain Trango- 
lar did not arrive. Going to inspect the outposts, as was 
his intention when he left Sister Marguerite, he continued 
his course till, either from ignorance of the position of the 
hostile forces, or actuated by an imprudent spirit of adven- 
ture, he crossed a ravine, the slopes and bottom of which 
were thickly covered with small trees and bushes. No 
sooner had he emerged from the brush on the farther 
side than a low but distinct and determined voice ordered 
him to halt and surrender, while half a dozen muskets 
were pointed at him from the bushy cover. There was no 
doubt of the fact that he had fallen into the power of an 
advanced picket of the enemy. No choice was left the 
unlucky captain but to yield himself a prisoner, and find 
such consolation as he could in cursing alternately his 
ill luck and his foolhardiness, as he was taken in charge 
of two soldiers to the enemy’s advance-guard. 


18 


2o6 


HOW WILL IT END? 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MAKING READY. 

The case of Allerton and Bulldon was certainly des- 
perate. Fortune seemed in every way opposed to them. 

Miss Mabie, whose testimony might possibly have opened 
a way for their escape, had, as is known, stayed at the 
cottage to feed her morbid curiosity and gossip with the 
neighbors of her own sex, who had come to proffer aid to 
the family and prepare poor Clementine for her last rest- 
ing-place, of the sad event, and all the circumstances 
connected with it, known or guessed. There the spinster 
heard, for the first time, the rumors and conjectures which 
coupled the unfortunate girPs name with that of the 
Honorable Mr. Clappergong. 

Marion and Cass, each of whom could have imparted 
valuable information, were going farther and farther from 
the place of trial. 

The Sisters Mary and Marguerite, whose evidence might 
have been very important, were under arrest, closely 
guarded, and forbidden all communication with the ac- 
cused officers. 

Captain Trangolar, who could have been the means of 
setting his sister and her companion at liberty, and of 
thus putting them in the way of giving a clue to the dis- 
covery of much weighty evidence for the prisoners, was 
himself a captive, in entire ignorance that his capture was 
likely to be avenged by the death of two persons belong- 
ing to the ranks of his captors, whose lives might have 
been saved but for his detention. 


MAKING READY, 


207 


The accused were cognizant of none of these facts. They 
knew no person within reach to whom they could apply 
for friendly aid or advice. They were ignorant of any 
facts which might be proved in their favor. They h^d no 
knowledge of Marion’s interest in them, and of her efforts 
to rescue them from their impending fate. They had not 
seen Cass since he left them in the forest after committing 
them to the care of Cicero. They were not aware that Miss 
Mabie could make disclosures which must, at least, throw 
great doubt upon the question of their guilt. The Honor- 
able Mr. Clappergong’s visit and avowal to poor Clemen- 
tine were wholly unknown to them. They could perceive 
no means of breaking the circle of circumstantial evidence 
completed around them, and they had no hope of escaping 
the consequences of such evidence at the approaching trial. 
They knew the solemnity of their situation. They felt that 
their hours were numbered, and that before the setting of 
the sun they should be reckoned no more with the living. 
For they were certain that their trial would be short, and 
the execution of their sentence speedy. 

Like brave men, accustomed to look upon sudden death 
as a matter of course, they calmly made ready to meet it. 
The guard kindly obtained some paper for them, and they 
wrote, each, a few letters, to be sent to their respective 
destinations after the execution. One of Allerton’s letters 
was addressed to Marion. Here is a copy of it : 

^‘1 know, dear Miss Marion, that you will not be angry 
if, in these last hours of a life which has now no charm, 
I address you with terms of endearment, for you are still 
very, very dear to me. The loss of your love has in no 
way diminished my affection, and I feel as if my heart 
must break if I shut within it all its throbbing passion 
and attempt to write this short farewell and prayer for 


2o8 


HGW WILL IT END? 


pardon in cold, formal language. You are, and to the 
last moment of my life must be, my darling, the dearest 
and only beloved of my soul. Immortal as that soul is 
my love for you, I think, and cannot cease at my death. 

^ Could I have lived, I should have hoped to vindicate my 
conduct in your eyes. Dying, the sharpest agony will be 
caused by the ever-present consciousness that you con- 
demn me. In asking you to forgive the deception which 
I practiced, I can only plead the overpowering tempta- 
tion of your love. I could not resist it, dearest. It suf- 
fused all my being, it enveloped me, it held me spell-bound, 
obedient only to itself. I was so happy, so blessed. I 
had not the moral courage to put an end to the entrancing 
dream. I still hoped that something might occur which 
would make your pardon possible. I dared to look for 
lenity from you ; that at length I might trust your love to 
plead for me \ that you would come to see in me only the 
man, the lover, the devoted friend, and not the political 
enemy. That was my dream, that my hope ; this all my 
excuse. I know before the trial that the evidence will be 
conclusive against me. I resign myself to my fate as well 
as I can, all the more easily now that, by my own act, I 
have put you forever beyond my reach. And yet, though 
I know this, I stretch out my arms to you and my heart 
yearns towards you in agony. 

^^I am entirely innocent of any purpose, even, to do 
the things laid to my charge. I pray you believe these, 
almost the last, words of a dying man. I did wish to 
escape from captivity, and, for this end, put on a disguise 
and ventured to ask hospitality at your house. When I 
was well enough to depart, I could not leave the paradise 
which your presence had conferred. I lingered with the 
vain hope of making that paradise real and perpetual. 
Yet did I always long to tell you all the truth, to open my 


MAKING READY, 


209 


heart to you, so that you might read it as does the Omnis- 
cient. But prudence, fear of the elfect which such a 
revelation might produce, what I owed to my friend, — 
for the secret and the danger were not mine alone, — 
made me defer the confession to the last. 

‘‘This letter is becoming too long. It is so sweet to 
feel that I am talking to you, with nothing now to con- 
ceal, while you are listening to me kindly, as I dare to 
believe, that I know not how to stop. You will credit 
the assertion of my innocence. Perhaps some day the 
plot which, I am sure, was formed against me, may come 
to light. Then the proofs of what I say will appear. Oh, 
darling, darling ! I could go to my death with a light heart 
did I know that you believe me guiltless and have for- 
given me. That will be known to me only when we shall 
meet hereafter. But I feel assured that you will, some time, 
remember me with tenderness and sorrow. 

“Good-by, my only love. May the good Father of 
all bless you for ever and ever ! Farewell, my darling, my 
life ! Although my arms cannot find you, nor my eyes see 
you, I feel that you are near, and that this, and not that 
cruel one when last you saw me, is our final separation. 
With it the sharpness of death is past. 

“Your own, even into and through the dark valley, 

“Allerton. 

“P.S. — Notwithstanding his wound and his feebleness, 
my friend teaches me to be strong. He bids me tell you 
how gratefully he remembers all your kindness, and to say 
farewell to you for him. 

‘^Allerton.’' 


Bulldon wrote to his mother as follows : 

18* 


210 


J/O^V WILL IT END? 


darling Mother, — I know not where you are, 
but believe you near me ; yet not so near that I may see 
you before I die. Ere you shall have read this letter, you 
will have learned of my end. I suffer an ignominious 
death unjustly. I say this, not to complain, but for your 
comfort. I shall not blame our judges; since the proofs 
on which they must act will be seemingly decisive. We 
are the victims of treachery and malice. The thought of 
doing that of which we are accused never entered my mind. 
And I know that my companion is as innocent as myself. 
But we are helpless, and can only meet our fate like men. 
Do not think me too much of a baby, dear mother, if I 
fell you, hurt and enfeebled and sorrowful as I am, — for 
it is hard to die just now that I have received your last 
letter, — how I long to have you by me, to rest my head 
again on your bosom, and feel the soothing influences of 
your love and sympathy, and the gentle caresses of your 
dear hands, charming all pain from my bruised and aching 
head. Allerton has read your two letters to me, for I 
could not read them myself, and I have. wept over your 
sorrows. Forgive you, dearest mother ! I pity you from 
the bottom of my heart, and love you more than ever. I 
never thought that you could need or ask my forgiveness. 
But I know that I must have, and was constantly receiv- 
ing, yours. Yet I never imagined how much you have 
suffered for me; and now you must endure the hardest 
pang of all. Would to Heaven I could spare you this ! 
But I cannot. It has been so willed by a Power that is all- 
wise as well as omnipotent. My heart is melted with pity 
and love for you, my good, my angelic mother. When 
you hear the story of my death, you shall not blush for me. 
The Sister Mary, of whom you speak, and to whom you 
confided your last letter, has not been to see me, has not 
even asked to see me. I cannot but feel that she has treated 


MAKING READY, 


211 


me with cruel negligence ; since she could have talked to 
me of you, and received my last sorrowful messages. Be- 
lieve me, darling mother, I think not of myself, but my 
heart is ready to break with sympathy for you. In this 
trying hour I remember all your dear instructions, and 
they are a source of sweet consolation. They point me 
to the hope of a happy meeting with you where there 
shall be no separation. But I cannot write more. I was 
wounded when we were captured, and am still weak. I 
trust my strength will suffice to carry me manfully through 
all that is to come. 

‘‘Farewell, my dear, patient, suffering mother. God 
bless and comfort you under this last and greatest afflic- 
tion ! — greatest it must be, for I know how you love me. 
I die, as I have tried to live, an honorable man. Let this 
assurance soften your grief. 

“Your devoted son, 

“Edward.** 

To the lady whom he so dearly loved, Bulldon wrote: 

“Through malice or mistake, I am about to suffer a dis- 
graceful death. I die an honest man, without the stain 
of a dishonorable thought, as I fondly trust. In this 
solemn hour all petty feelings are hushed. I acknowledge 
the possibility that, in leaving you so abruptly, without 
asking or giving you opportunity for any explanation, I 
may have done you great wrong. If so, I entreat your for- 
giveness. I will not speak of what I have suffered. You can 
divine it when I say that I have never ceased to love you 
with all the ardor of a first and only love. That you will 
forgive all my injustice, and remember me with kindness, 
as one whose faults shall have been expiated before you 
read this letter, is the last petition of your ever-loving 

“Edward.** 


212 


HOW WILL IT END? 


Allerton, for himself and his friend, wrote out some 
directions for the delivery of these and other letters after 
their death, and also their respective wishes in regard 
to the disposition that should be made of certain keep- 
sakes. The miniature of Bulldon’s mother, and her two 
letters, one of which had already been so long and so 
sacredly preserved by him, were sealed up in a little pack- 
age, to be sent to her, or delivered to Sister Mary for her. 

Little was said by the two friends while making these 
sad preparations. The thoughts and feelings called into 
action were too deep and too sacred for expression. Un- 
bidden tears would occasionally steal from their eyes as 
memory was busy with the past. 

These pious and touching acts were hardly finished 
when an officer entered and summoned them to appear 
before the court ; and, closely guarded, they proceeded 
to the place of trial. Bulldon walked between Allerton 
and a soldier, leaning on an arm of each. 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


213 


CHAPTER XXX. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

Marion’s strength and skill as a rider stood her well 
in hand as her spirited steed rushed furiously on, irritated 
almost to madness by inconsiderate urging. Her beau- 
tiful brows were slightly drawn together; her usually 
soft eyes, hardened by the ardor of resolution, looked 
straight before her ; and her whole expression betokened 
an unconquerable purpose. She seemed unconscious 
that the pet horse beneath her could feel pain or be 
susceptible of fatigue, as, from time to time, she brought 
her whip smartly down upon his flecked shoulders or 
streaming flanks. Yet the noble beast, sympathizing, ap- 
parently, with his rider’s intense excitement, was willingly 
showing his fastest pace. Cass’s whole attention was taken 
up in trying to keep near to his mistress. Had they 
been less absorbed when they swept by a cluster of 
trees standing near the road, they might have seen two 
soldiers, who came out hastily and leveled their mus- 
kets, which were immediately thrown up by the officer 
in command. He probably saw that the riders could 
not be stopped without firing upon them, and he would 
not permit his men to shoot at a woman. Ignorant of 
the danger which they had escaped, mistress and man 
rode on at headlong speed, and at length reached the 
town where Marion expected to find her father. They 
could not but notice that the place was in a state of un- 
usual commotion. General officers and aides-de-camp 
were riding fast hither and thither ; the heavy rumble of 


214 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


moving artillery sounded like the reverberations of distant 
thunder ; drums were beating ; and regiments of infantry 
and cavalry were marching, or drawn up waiting the order 
to march. With flushed face, Marion drew rein near an 
officer who was quietly sitting on his horse at the head 
of one of the regiments which had halted. Her voice 
was broken by the tumultuous beating of her heart, as 
she asked the way to headquarters. The officer courte- 
ously directed her to a house not far off ; and, hastily 
thanking him, she rode on. When they came to this 
house, Cass pushed his horse forward and took her bridle, 
just as she leaped, unaided, to the ground. Going 
directly to the sentinel on duty, she asked to see General 
Devray. The soldier replied that the general was very 
busy and could see no one. 

^^But I am his daughter, ’’ she cried, ^^and I must see 
him!” 

The man raised his cap respectfully, and, calling an 
orderly, who was standing near the door, told him who 
the young lady was and what she wanted. The orderly, 
after regarding her for a moment with a look in which 
admiration, respect, and curiosity were blended, went 
into the house. Coming back soon, he asked Marion to 
follow him, and going before her through a hall, in which 
were many aides-de-camp and other inferior officers, he 
opened the door of a large room, which she entered. 
Heedless of several military personages of high rank, 
some of whom were standing near General Devray, some 
lounging on the window-sills, and some engaged in con- 
versation which was carried on in a low voice a little 
to one side, she hurried up to her father, who was seated 
at a table, and said, as he arose to embrace her, — 

Oh, papa, I must see you right away ; there is not a 
moment to lose 1” 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


215 


Looking at her with an expression of tender surprise, 
General Devray led the way to another room. As soon 
as the door was closed and they were alone, Marion threw 
her arms about her father’s neck, and, hiding her face in 
his bosom, sobbed convulsively. 

‘^What has happened, my child ?” demanded he, affec- 
tionately, caressing her head soothingly with his hand. 
After a few moments he raised her from his breast, and, 
kissing her forehead, asked, What has brought you here, 
my darling, at such a time as this ?’ ’ 

‘‘Oh, papa!” she answered, “ those poor officers whom 
they call spies, — they are not spies, papa, I am sure they 
are not ; and they will condemn them, and execute them, 
unless you stop them, papa.” 

“But, my child,” said her father, “what do you know 
about it?” 

“I know that they are not spies, dear papa,” she re- 
plied. And, once more hiding her face on her father’s 
breast, she added, “ The colonel loves me, and I love him, 

and I know he could not do such a thing ” 

“What are you saying, Marion ?” interrupted the gen- 
eral, gravely, again raising his daughter’s head, and holding 
her blushing and tearful face at arm’s length from him, 
while he looked sharply at her. As she stood thus, her 
beauty was such as must have touched any heart, much more 
a father’s. Her face was tinted like an exquisite rose-leaf 
by the rich blood that mantled it ; tears glistened in all 
their purity on either cheek ; her eyes were cast down, 
and all the soft luxuriance of her long and dark eyelashes 
was visible ; her hair, broken partially from its bonds by 
the violent motion of her ride, hung in graceful confusion 
about her neck, and lay in affluent masses on her shoulders. 

“Do not be angry with me, dear papa,” she said; “you 
will find that I am right.” And again she twined her 


2i6 


JIOJV WILL IT END? 


arms about his neck. ‘‘It is a long story, and there is not 
time to tell it now ; for, if we delay, I shall be too late. 
Besides, I have proofs ; and there must be more, if we 
only had time to discover them.** 

“What proofs?** asked the general, looking troubled 
and sorely perplexed. And then he continued : “But I 
have not time to listen to them now. The court-martial 
will give those gentlemen a fair trial.** 

“No, but it cannot, papa. They have no evidence to 
offer for themselves. I have it, or I can find it, if you will 
give me time.** 

Then, suddenly drawing out her purse, she took from it 
the stone which she had bought of the soldier, as has been 
related, and told her father how she came by it, and what 
the man had said. Looking around, as if she feared to 
be overheard, she put her mouth to her father*s ear, and 
said something in a whisper. The general started with 
unfeigned surprise. He took the stone and examined 
it carefully for a moment. Then he spoke : 

“I cannot give you more time now, my child. It is 
impossible. All I can do is to send an order that all pro- 
ceedings against these men be suspended till I arrive. And 
this I will do. After I come, they shall have every oppor- 
tunity and facility for clearing themselves, and you can 
tell me your story. I sincerely trust, my dear,** he added, 
gravely, but tenderly, “that you have been guilty of no 
conduct unbecoming my daughter?** 

“You shall judge for yourself, papa, my dear, good 
papa,** said she, looking him frankly in the face; “and 
be sure that I will do nothing against your wishes after 
you shall know all. But let me have the order at once ; 
let me carry it, papa.** 

“ That would be folly, — worse than folly, child,** replied 
the general. “You are already overheated and tired 


FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 


217 


with hard riding ; besides, we are in hourly expectation 
of an attack. The enemy has advanced his whole line, 
and you might be intercepted and taken prisoner, if no 
worse happened to you.” 

‘^Oh, they certainly would not harm a woman,” said 
Marion ; ‘‘and your order would itself be a safe-conduct, 
if shown.” 

“There is some reason in that,” observed her father. 

“And, moreover, I cannot remain here,” argued Marion. 

“That is true enough,” said the general, thoughtfully. 
And then, after a short pause, he continued : “ Perhaps 
you are right, my brave girl. You shall bear the order; 
but I will send a troop of horse to escort you.” 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, papa!” said Marion, em- 
bracing him. “Write the order at once, please. Cass 
is here with the horses, and they have had time to 
breathe.” 

Without making any reply, her father led the way to 
the room where he was when she came in, and, seating 
himself at the table, wrote the order and gave it to Marion. 
Then, calling an officer, he directed him to take a com- 
pany of cavalry and escort Miss Devray to Fort , 

charging him, on her account, to use all caution, run no 
risks, and move as fast as possible. Then he embraced 
his daughter fondly, and, with a fervent “ God bless you, 
my darling!” turned from her and once more took his 
seat at the table. 

The young officer who was to command the escort 
offered his arm, cap in hand, to Miss Devray, and con- 
ducted her to the piazza in front of the house, where he 
placed a seat, and, begging her to wait a few minutes till 
the troop should be ready to start, left her. In a very 
short time he appeared at the head of his horsemen, and, 
dismounting, placed Marion in her saddle. Then, leap- 

19 


2I8 


HOW WILL IT END? 


ing on his horse and taking his position by her side, they 
went before the company at a brisk trot out of the town, 
while Cass followed in the rear of the cavalcade. 


CHAPTER XXXL 

WHO WERE BEHIND THE WOOD. 

As soon as they were beyond the press and confusion 
of the crowded streets, a portion of the escort was placed 
before Marion and the captain, to act as an advance-guard, 
and the party quickened their pace to a gallop. 

Instead of following the more direct road by which 
she had come, they turned into another, which, although 
it made the journey somewhat longer, would carry them 
farther from the enemy^s lines. The captain, who yet 
rode by Marion, civilly tried to engage her in conversa- 
tion, but she seemed disinclined to talk. From time to 
time she would feverishly urge on her steed, or ask her 
companion if they could not go faster, notwithstanding 
the speed of their horses was already well put to the test. 
Sometimes, too, she would press her hand to her side, to 
still the sharp pain caused by long-continued violent 
exercise and fatigue. But she uttered no word of com- 
plaint. 

They had ridden, without accident or incident, about 
one-half the way which they had to go, when they came 
abreast a wood, which bordered the road for half a mile 
or more, and from which it was separated by a low fence. 
As they drew near to this wood, the lieutenant, who com- 
manded the advance-guard, had looked closely into it, 


H^JIO WERE BEHIND THE WOOD. 


219 


but, seeing no signs of the enemy, he had dashed onward, 
followed by the whole party. They had passed over 
about one-half that portion of the road which was skirted 
by the grove, when they saw a body of cavalry suddenly 
come from beyond the trees, leap the fence, and draw up 
in the track to dispute their passage. The captain at 
once ordered a halt. Casting his eyes back, as if about 
to order a retreat, he saw that another body of horsemen 
had as suddenly appeared at the other end of the wood 
in their rear. It was plain that a regiment of the enemy’s 
troopers had been hidden behind the trees, and, as soon 
as Marion’s escort had passed the outskirts of the grove, 
had been divided into two bands to intercept the party 
and prevent its advance or retreat. Each of these bands 
largely outnumbered that which formed Marion’s guard. 
The young officer, who had not before quitted Miss De- 
vray’s side, held a hasty consultation with his subordinates. 
There was, however, little time for deliberation. The 
troop in the rear was already coming on to the charge. 

Shall we surrender?” asked the captain of Marion, 
as he returned to her. 

Not if you can help it,” she answered, calmly; but 
her face was very pale. This reply seemed to agree with 
the captain’s wishes. He at once decided to attack, and, 
if possible, break through the force in front before that 
in the rear could come up, and was forming a portion of 
his company in a hollow square for the better protection 
of the lady, when she turned her horse towards him and 
addressed him : 

^‘They will not trouble themselves about a woman,” 
she said. will leave the highway for awhile, and ride 
through the wood and through the fields till I can again 
take the road safely, when you can join me, if you succeed 
in passing the enemy. If you do not prosper in this un- 


220 


JlOtV WILL IT END? 


dertaking, I shall still be able to do my errand. While 
you engage our opponents, I shall, at any rate, have time 
to escape.^’ 

Without waiting for a reply, she put her horse over the 
fence and disappeared among the trees, followed by Cass, 
who, on the first appearance of danger, had ridden for- 
ward and stationed himself near his mistress. 

This movement was seen by the force in the rear, and 
half a dozen troopers, headed by a lieutenant, instantly 
broke from the ranks and started in pursuit. Over the 
fence they went pell-mell, crashing through the woods in 
the direction taken by Marion. 

In the mean time the captain of the escort had ordered 
the charge, and his men dashed gallantly after him against 
those who barred their progress. The shock was firmly 
sustained by the adversary, and a number of soldiers on 
each side were killed at the onset. But the contest, un- 
equal at first, soon became overwhelmingly so, for the troop 
in the rear reached the scene of the fight, and the brave 
fellows who wished to force their way, pressed upon now 
before and behind, had no choice but to surrender, or 
uselessly to throw away their lives. At least one-half their 
number lay upon the road, dead, or grievously wounded, 
when the survivors yielded themselves prisoners, and, 
under a strong guard, took up their march to the enemy^s 
camp. 

For awhile Marion did not know that she was followed. 
The rustle and snapping of dry leaves and underbrush as 
her own and Cass’s horses galloped through the wood, 
which, fortunately for them, was not encumbered with 
thickets, prevented their hearing the noise made by their 
pursuers. But, shortly after they had come out into the 
open country, they distinctly heard the tramp of steeds 
behind them, and soon saw the troopers riding hard after 


WHO WERE BEHIND THE WOOD, 


221 


them. Divining their purpose, Marion used her whip 
vigorously; but her noble horse could not increase his 
speed. He was far from fresh. He had done his whole 
duty faithfully, and now, thoroughly exhausted, breathed 
loud and with difficulty through his widely-distended and 
quivering nostrils. His mistress seemed not to notice his 
distress, but urged him continually. Cass had already 
fallen somewhat ifi the rear, unable to force his horse to 
the pace necessary in order to keep near his leader. 
Those who followed .them, on the contrary, appeared to 
be well mounted on fresh and swift horses, particularly 
the commander of the party and one of his men, who led 
the hunt. Under these conditions the result of the chase 
could not long remain doubtful. 

Seeing that there was no hope of escape, and that 
further efforts would be vain, Marion stopped her horse, 
and, turning him so as to face her pursuers, waited for 
them. The poor beast stood with his head drooping 
almost to the ground, and trembling in every limb. Cass 
soon joined his mistress, and, shortly after, the officer who 
led the hostile party came up, followed by his’ men, one 
after another. 

‘‘You are a gallant rider, miss,” said the lieutenant, 
“ but the chances were against you this time. I must re- 
quest you and your servant here to go with us.” 

“Do you make war on women, then?” asked Marion, 
the scorn of her expression hardly concealed by the 
haughtiness of her manner. 

“No, but we take them captive sometimes, in re- 
venge for the many surrenders which they compel from 
us,” answered the officer, raising his cap. “You will, 
therefore, please to consider yourself my prisoner,” he 
added. 

“But, sir,” she said, forgetting all her indignation, 
19* 


222 


HOW WILL IT END? 


‘‘you do not know my errand. You surely will not de- 
tain me when you know that.’’ 

“I am afraid it will make no difference,” he replied. 

“ Oh, it must ! it must 1” said she, earnestly. “ Two of 
your officers. Colonel Allerton and Captain Bulldon, are 

prisoners at Fort , accused of being spies, to be tried 

this very day, with no testimony as yet to offer against the 
complete circumstantial evidence of their guilt. I have 
been to my father, and got an order to put off their trial. 
Here it is.” And, with trembling hands, she drew the 
order from her bosom and handed it to the lieutenant. 

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said the officer, as he gave 
the order back, after reading it carefully, “but are you 
the daughter of General Devray?” 

“Yes, sir,” she answered. 

“ Permit me to remark that you have good reason to be 
proud of each other,” said he, respectfully. And then he 
added, “But I cannot let you pass, miss. I have no dis- 
cretion in the matter. And if I had, I could not act dif- 
ferently. I know the officers of whom you speak, and two 
more gallant or honorable gentlemen do not live. But 
they must submit to the chances of war. It is better that 
they should die than that we should be made to sacri- 
fice some thousands of men, and perhaps even then to 
fail, by letting you carry to the fort the news of our ap- 
proach. Besides, I cannot be certain that the order which 
you have is not part of a plan to pass you safely on your 
way to give the very information which we wish to keep 
to ourselves.” 

“I assure you,” replied Marion, warmly, “that I have 
only spoken the truth. I have but one purpose, and that 
is to bear this order as quickly as possible ” 

“ But why such interest in these officers?” asked the 
lieutenant, interrupting her. 


IN THE ENEMY’S CAMP. 


223 


^‘They — they are my friends/* she replied, casting 
down her eyes. 

Her evident confusion, as she made this answer, in- 
creased the officer’s suspicions that the order and the 
story of the accusation against his two friends were but 
pretexts. 

know nothing of your movements, and could not 
injure you if I would,” said Marion, after a short pause. 

‘‘It may be a hard case,” observed the officer, almost 
sadly, “ but, as I said before, I have no discretion, and 
must take you to my commanding officer. He may do 
as he pleases.” 

Without further delay, he formed his men, and, laying 
his hand on Marion’s bridle, gave the order to march. 
The party moved at a slow trot towards the place where 
the pursuit had begun. 

Marion went, wringing her hands, and moaning in all 
the sharp agony of despair. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

IN THE enemy’s CAMP. 

In the face of so much adverse fortune, Marion’s forti- 
tude seemed at length to have given way, and she rode 
hopelessly, and almost helplessly, along, apparently un- 
mindful of the lieutenant’s respectful attempts to comfort 
her by assurances that she should receive only the most 
courteous treatment, so far as could be consistent with the^ 
necessity for her detention. 

He, naturally enough, supposed that her grief was caused 


224 


HOW WILL IT END? 


by fears for her personal safety. She appeared like a per- 
son so worn with illness that the mind had lost its power 
to mark passing events, and the senses their readiness to 
give notice of them. Once or twice she would have fallen 
from her horse had not the officer, who never left her side, 
supported her. 

They came, by-and-by, to the scene of the conflict be- 
tween her former escort and the enemy’s troopers, plainly 
denoted by the torn ground, and by the dead bodies of 
friend and foe stiffening in all the ghastly contortions into 
which they had been thrown by the last mortal agony. 
Marion shuddered as they passed the spot, and covered 
her face with her hands. 

They continued their course to the headquarters of the 
expedition to which her captors belonged. These were, 
for the time being, in a farm-house, of which the soldiers 
had taken possession. As they drew near this place, the 
unfortunate girl seemed to revive a little, and her natural 
hopefulness and elasticity of spirit appeared to struggle 
against the depressing influences by which she was almost 
crushed. 

The officer, in whose care she was, lifted her from the 
saddle, and requested the women of the house, who yet 
remained on the premises, to give her all needful atten- 
tion. Then he went to General Sterling, the officer com- 
manding the force, and told him what he had done. 
Luckily, this gentleman had formerly known and highly 
esteemed General Devray as his friend, had visited at his 
house, and had often seen Marion while she was yet a 
child. He listened to the lieutenant’s statement with the 
liveliest interest. 

‘‘You have done right, sir,” he said, when that officer 
had concluded his report; “but I wish to Heaven you 
had been less obedient ! I would have taken her word to 


IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP. 


225 


divulge nothing, and allowed that girl to go on, though I 
had been- court-martialed and cashiered for it. Where 
and how is she 

Quite broken down, sir, apparently. I left her in 
charge of the women here,’^ replied the lieutenant. 

The general went at once to see her. As soon as he 
appeared, Marion recognized him, and, coming eagerly 
towards him, seized his hand in both her own. 

^^Oh, sir,’* she cried, ^^do not keep me here! You 
know me. You know that what I say is true. They will 
be killed if you do not let me go. Here is the order, 
and it will save them if you do not hinder me.” And, 
with eager hands, she drew the order from its sacred rest- 
ing-place and gave it to the commander. He turned to 
read it, ashamed to let her see that he could not at first 
make out the words for the mists which dimmed his sight. 

‘‘lam exceedingly sorry. Miss Devray,” said he, “ that 
my men were so well mounted ; although the officer who 
brought you in only did his duty. They all had positive 
orders to capture every person found going towards the 
fort. I am afraid it is now too late to mend what has 
been done.” 

“Oh, no!” exclaimed Marion, while her sweet, pale 
face seemed to grow still paler. “If you will but give 
me a fresh horse, — mine, poor fellow, is quite worn out, — 
and let me go, I will yet be in time.” And she added, as 
if speaking her thoughts, unconsciously, aloud, “I must 
be in time ! I must save them ! Oh, what shall I do ?” 

“My dear young lady,” replied General Sterling, very 
gently, even tenderly, “ you do not know what has taken 
place since you left the fort. Our advance should now 
be very near it, and all the avenues of approach cut off.” 

“ But give me a pass, and I am sure I can find a way,” 
urged she. 


226 


HOW WILL IT END? 


‘^That is impossible/^ he answered. ^^The danger 
would be too great. 

‘^What shall I do, then? Oh, tell me what I shall 
do ! ” pleaded the poor girl. 

^‘We will see what can be done,** said the general. 

Something has been begun already. Let me say that I 
honor your efforts and sympathize with you more than I 
can express. I knew of the critical situation of our two 

friends. Captain Trangolar ** 

Captain Trangolar !** repeated Marion, interrupting, 
with a look of bewilderment. 

Captain Trangolar, who was once well known to me, 
told me all about their misfortunes. ’ * 

^‘Captain Trangolar told you this?** she asked, as if 
she could not comprehend. 

Yes. He was taken prisoner this morning by one of 
our pickets, and is now in camp. As soon as I received 
this sad news I hastened all our preparations for an 
attack, desiring to be in time, if possible, to save the 
lives of two of our bravest officers. It was our purpose 
to make this attack as much of a surprise as we could ; 
which is the reason why you were so sharply pursued, 
captured, and detained. All travelers were treated in the 
same way. It was one of the necessities of the case, — 
one of the wrongs which war forces us to commit ; and 
so you must pardon it. As I have said, our advance 
ought now to be near the fort ; and we are to move from 
here immediately to its support. You shall go with us, 
and Captain Trangolar, who is on parole, shall be your 
particular escort. At the very first opportunity you shall 
be sent forward with a flag of truce ; and I trust you may 
yet arrive in time.** 

In his own mind the careful commander was very sure 
that such an opportunity would not occur till after the 


IN THE ENEMY^S CAMP. 


227 


sound of his guns should have announced that the attack 
had been made. He had the fullest confidence in Marion's 
honor ; but, in common with many other thoughtful and 
discreet men, he entertained the very absurd notion that 
women often tell a secret unconsciously, and without any 
design so to do ; that sometimes, even, it is betrayed by 
their ill-judged efforts to guard it ; that they are impul- 
sive and excitable ; that, as a full jar, when shaken, spills 
enough of its contents to show what it holds, so they not 
seldom, when agitated or stirred, throw out sufficient to 
show what they could tell ; and that, in any case, they are 
apt to use language without apprehending all its signifi- 
cance or measuring its possible reach. Therefore, in 
spite of his kindly sympathy with Marion and those 
whom she wished to serve, he was not sorry, now that 
she was in his camp, that she qould not go to her friends 
before they should have received his grim salute. Tran- 
golar had intimated to him that the young lady's heart 
had been given to Allerton ; and on this account his pity 
for her was all the more tender. 

‘‘Oh, thank you! thank you!” was all the reply that 
Marion had made, between her sobs, as she caught eagerly 
at the remote hope thus held out. 

“You deserve, and shall have, the honor of bearing 
that order to the fort yourself,” said the commander. 
“But you will have no opportunity to serve our enemies 
by giving them news of us ; we shall be beforehand with 
you,” added he, playfully. 

Marion seemed not to notice the remark. 

“Now,” he continued, “try to rest a little for a few 
minutes ; and the good women here will give you some 
refreshments, while our troops are put in motion. Then 
we will set out together. ’ ’ 

Thereupon General Sterling turned and left the room ; 


228 


J/OIV WILL IT END? 


* and the women, seeing in how forlorn a condition the 
young lady appeared, were urgently kind in their atten- 
tions, offering such homely comfort and solace as they 
could. They persuaded her to drink some home-made 
cordial, which had great repute in the neighborhood for 
its tonic, stimulating, and health-giving properties. It 
was there esteemed a balm alike for the body and the 
soul; and Marion really felt much refreshed and invigor- 
ated by its cheering power. 

Before many minutes had passed. Captain Trangolar 
came in to lead Miss Devray to the horse which had been 
provided for her by General Sterling, announcing that 
all was ready for their departure. 

His presence was a great relief to her, and seemed to 
give her new strength. 

In a short time they were on their way towards the 
fort, riding near the commanding officer and his staff, and 
followed by the faithful, yet weary, anxious, and half-dis- 
tracted Cass, who was also mounted on a fresh horse, but 
to whom no one had explained the purpose of their present 
journey. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE TRIAL. 

As soon as Allerton and Bulldon had entered the room 
where the court was assembled, and taken the seats pro- 
vided for them, the trial began. The officer to whom they 
had surrendered themselves prisoners in the first place, and 
who happened now to be on duty with the garrison of the 
fort, was one of the witnesses, and by his testimony proved 


THE TRIAL. 


229 


who they were, and that they had been taken by him. 
Then the officer of his command who had been over- 
come and bound by them with his own connivance testi- 
fied to the fact of their escape, and, under the inspiration 
of the Honorable Mr. Clappergong, appeared to be a 
model of bravery, patriotism, and fidelity. That they had 
borne assumed names, disguised themselves in the uniform 
and represented themselves as belonging to the party of 
their adversaries, stayed some time within their lines, and 
then essayed to fly to the enemy, bearing papers which 
they could not have obtained honestly, nor have hidden 
upon their persons save with a will to do the acts of spies, 
was easily proven by the Honorable Pestyfog, and others, 
who gave their evidence with much apparent alacrity. 
These facts, indeed, the prisoners did not attempt to deny. 
But they did solemnly assert that they were wholly igno- 
rant of the existence, even, of the papers found upon them 
till they were taken from Allerton’s boot; and that they 
were disguised for no dishonorable purpose, but only to 
make sure their flight, and rejoin their friends, like good 
men and true. 

The only effect of these assertions, however, was to lower 
the accused in the respect, and diminish the already small 
favor, of the court. Such affirmations appeared too pal- 
pably, too stupidly false ; to have not even the merit of 
ingenuity ; to show an utter absence of common shrewd- 
ness, magnanimity, and chivalrous courage on the part of 
those who made them, when compared with the proven, 
even with the admitted, facts. 

have nothing to say,” spoke Bulldon, in a steady 
voice, when asked if he had any ’further defense to make, 

except that we are the victims of a cunning scoundrel, 
who has contrived to give a false coloring to all that we 
have done knowingly, by making us do ignorantly that 


20 


230 


HOW WILL IT END? 


which is most conclusive against us, and which cannot but 
confirm in your minds the belief in our guilt. We foresee 
the inevitable sentence of this court, and are prepared to 
meet it.’' 

The speaker’s fine face was very pale; yet it was, plainly, 
not the pallor of apprehension, but that consequent upon 
his wound. No trepidation or anxiety was apparent in 
his looks or in the tones of his voice. 

Allerton was equally calm. Looking frankly at his 
judges, and speaking with great dignity and candor, he 
said, — 

Aware that the deliberations of this court can have 
but one result, and that we already stand here as con- 
demned men, I must reiterate the statements which I have 
already made. And I should esteem myself most fortu- 
nate and happy if they could impress the honorable mem- 
bers of this court with the* conviction that my companion 
in misfortune is innocent of the practices charged against 
him. You will remember that on my person only were 
any documents found. He, then, ought to be considered 
free from all the effects of that discovery. You may 
choose to disbelieve me when I say that even I myself am 
in no way responsible for that fact ; that I was wholly 
ignorant of the existence of those papers till they were 
taken from their place of concealment, when we were 
captured. But you must believe me when, speaking not 
for myself but for another, I assert that he was not, and 
could not be, an accomplice in that act. I would to 
Heaven that I might impart to you my certainty of his 
freedom from any thought even of the deeds for which he 
stands accused ! I know him to be the very soul of honor. 
And he has much to live for. Born of a noble race, life 
is full of promise for him. I entreat that you will so far 
give credit to our statements, made upon honor, and, as 


THE TRIAL. 


231 


it were, in the immediate presence of death, that yon 
may be satisfied with my condemnation, and let my friend 
and comrade go free.’’ 

‘‘Stop, Allerton. Speak for yourself, or sit down,” said 
Bulldon, in a low voice, and for the first time showing 
agitation, as he pulled at his friend’s skirts. 

“I make this appeal,” continued Allerton, “under the 
sanction of everything which men reverence or respect, 
and in circumstances of the greatest solemnity. It is for 
you to judge whether an appeal so made, by one who 
knows that which he affirms, and who pleads not for him- 
self, be not worthy of consideration and credence. As 
for me, except the ignominy of it, my death does not 
matter much. Whether it come to-day or to-morrow, the 
difference is little.” 

The members of the court listened to these speeches 
with apparent interest. Some were evidently touched by 
Allerton’s disinterestedness. Others suspected him of 
disingenuousness and hardihood ; pf having made a wily 
attempt to accomplish some underhanded scheme by 
obtaining the release of his accomplice. It is so much 
easier to suspect an evil than a good motive for what men 
do. Immediately after they had finished speaking, the 
prisoners were removed, that the court might consult. 

The Honorable Mr. Clappergong had himself already 
gone, and had sent several times since Marion’s departure, 
to learn if she had returned. He cherished the hope that 
she might at length have been driven by desperation to 
acquiesce in his wishes, and that she was ready to accept 
the terms of his proposition. He now hurried off again 
to see if she had yet come back, and to obtain her final 
answer. The irritation produced by her continued ab- 
sence was one of the causes which made him give his tes- 
timony against the accused with such ill-concealed pleasure. 


HOW WILL IT END? 


232 

He felt that he was revenging himself on both Allertun 
and Marion for their obstinacy in refusing his generous 
offer and thwarting his cherished purpose. If he could 
conclude a treaty with the lady before the finding of the 
court should be promulgated, he was confident that he 
might dictate its decision. 

When he learned that Marion had not yet returned, he 
could not restrain his rage, nor refrain from cursing vio- 
lently. He saw that his last chance to win Miss Devray 
was gone; yet he experienced a feeling of exultation as 
he thought of her sufferings when she should find that, 
though successful in her errand, she had come too late, 
and that all her efforts had been useless. In this amiable 
frame of mind he returned to the fort. 

The deliberations of the court had not been long. The 
prisoners were found guilty, and sentenced to be executed 
within an hour. 

The only object of this short delay was to give time for 
the preparation of a rude scaffold. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

ISOLATED. 

The Sisters Mary and Marguerite were tortured by the 
sharpest pangs of apprehension. As they noted, with 
ever-growing impatience and solicitude, the passage of 
time, they became a prey to painful forebodings, both as 
to Captain Trangolar’s fate and their own. But even 
greater were their fear and anxiety on account of the young 
officers who were undergoing an examination on which 


ISOLATED. 


233 


their lives depended. In reply to urgent questions, the 
Sisters had been told by their guard that the trial had 
begun. Then for awhile did they forget their own critical 
situation and all their fears for Trangolar and themselves. 
Kneeling, they prayed that the accused might safely pass 
this crisis ; that the omniscient Judge would mercifully 
incline the thoughts of those who were sitting in judg- 
ment to truth and justice. And if, in His infinite and 
inscrutable purposes, it was ordered that these brave men 
must suffer, they besought the Divine support for them in 
their last hour, that they might meet their fate with 
resignation, and with that tranquillity which is imparted 
by the belief that death is the last agony of the curse, 
and the portal by which men return to Paradise, whence 
they were once banished. Here the voices of the sup- 
pliants were broken by sobs, and their words became 
intelligible only to that ear which is always open. 

Before their own arrest they had hoped to see the 
accused officers after their trial, even should they be con- 
demned. Now they knew that, if these gentlemen were 
not acquitted, that hope was vain ; unless, indeed, Trangolar 
should return very soon and themselves be set at liberty. 
The Honorable Mr. Clappergong, fearing the effect of 
such disclosures as the Sisters might make, or as might be 
drawn from them, if they should be brought face to face 
with the condemned, and wishing to use every precaution 
against such a chance, had argued that these women ought 
to be kept strictly confined, and not allowed to communi- 
cate with any one, particularly the officers awaiting exe- 
cution, until Captain Trangolar should come back ; nor 
then, unless, as they had alleged, he could prove them to 
be no spies, but peaceable persons acting in good faith ; 
that this course would be really the kindest to the ladies, 
and subject them to the fewest annoyances, etc. 


234 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


The Honorable gentleman had his own reasons for 
wishing to put off all action in regard to these prisoners 
and to keep them isolated till Captain Trangolar should 
again show himself. It had now become necessary to him, 
as a matter of prudence, that Allerton and Bulldon should 
be executed and his own conduct not be called in question. 
He was confident that the time, thus limited, would be 
enough for the accomplishment of his purposes. He felt 
very certain that this officer could not be back before the 
execution should take place. Not that he had any intima- 
tion or suspicion of what had, in fact, befallen the cap- 
tain. But he knew that Trangolar had only come to the 
fort to meet General Devray. He knew, also, that the 
general had been detained ; and he knew that Trangolar 
had received a message from his chief since he arrived at 
the post, and that shortly after he had gone away. He 
inferred, therefore, that the captain had been ordered to 
repair to General Devray’ s headquarters, and had set out 
in obedience to the summons, in which case it would be 
very unlikely that he could return in time to interfere with 
the Honorable Pestyfog’s patriotic plans. He felt all the 
more confidence in the correctness of his inference as to 
the cause of Trangolar’ s prolonged absence, from the fact 
that, at the Sisters’ tearful solicitation, messengers had 
been sent to every place in the neighborhood where he 
would be likely to stop, to ascertain if that officer had been 
seen, and had obtained no news of him. Wishing to 
appear wholly uninterested in the captain’s movements, 
his absence or his presence, the Honorable Mr. Clapper- 
gong had refrained from asking any questions. Other- 
wise he might have learned that, instead of going to 
General Devray’ s headquarters, he had walked out simply 
to while away a little time in visiting some of the out- 
posts near the fort. The Honorable gentleman’s argu- 


ISOLATED. 


235 


merits, in regard to the course of conduct proper to be 
followed in relation to the Sisters, prevailed ; so that, 
when Bulldon asked the guard whether a Sister of Charity 
had been there again, he was told that two women, dressed 
as Sisters of Charity, had been arrested as spies, and were 
now imprisoned in the fort; and, in reply to Bulldon’ s 
inquiry whether he might not see them, the soldier in- 
formed him that orders had been given particularly for- 
bidding any communication between those persons and 
themselves. So, also, when the Sisters, having heard of 
the sentence, and that it was so speedily to be executed, 
besought leave to see the condemned men and offer such 
religious consolations as it was the privilege of their order 
to administer, the permission was refused, and no amount 
of entreaty could prevail to obtain this favor. 

They forbore to speak of any other interest which made 
them desire to see the doomed officers, for fear, through 
the general suspicion against them, of impairing rather 
than improving their chance. So long as death should 
not make such a meeting impossible, they would not despair 
of obtaining from the authorities the consent for which 
they so earnestly prayed. They waited and hoped, also, 
for Trangolar’s return, in an agony of solicitude, during 
this brief hour, which fled away as if time had quadrupled 
his speed. But he came not ; and they learned that the 
preparations for the execution were complete. 

Perceiving now that nothing could be lost by making 
known her most urgent motives for wishing to see the 
condemned men, and that in doing this lay her only re- 
maining hope, small as that might be. Sister Mary hastily 
wrote a petition to the commander of the fort, entreating 
permission to see the unhappy young men before they 
should be led to the scaffold, and stating such reasons why 
her prayer should be granted as would, in all probability, 


236 


J/OIV WILL IT END? 


have prevailed with the strict but kind-hearted officer, had 
the petition been read by him. Unfortunately, however, 
he was very much occupied at the time, and, supposing the 
paper to contain a plea for the release of the two women, 
and thinking that an hour or two could not make much 
difference with them, he put the document into his pocket, 
to be examined when he should be more at leisure. Had 
he read it then, he would have learned facts which, coming 
to his knowledge a little later, in a different way, drew 
tears from his eyes. 

In vain the Sisters waited for a response to this last ap- 
peal. The funeral music, which had torn their hearts as 
it reached them in their prison, died out of hearing. The 
final moments of the last hour of life accorded to the vic- 
tims were passing away, and Sisters Mary and Marguerite 
felt that their mission could never be fulfilled. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A LUCKY SHOT. 

The scaffold had been set up at some distance from the 
fort, between it and the outposts, towards the enemy, on 
the highest part of a rising ground, from which an exten- 
sive view was afforded. From an innate love of pageantry, 
or in order to make the execution more impressive, a much 
larger body of soldiers than could, in any event, be requi- 
site, was formed in a funeral procession, preceded by the 
fine military band at that time stationed at the post. The 
condemned men were brought out and placed in charge 


A LUCKY SHOT. 


237 


of an especial guard, who were arranged before, behind, 
and on both sides of them, with muskets loaded and bayo- 
nets fixed. In making these unusual preparations some 
unexpected delay happened, so that the hour fixed for the 
execution was past before the procession was well on its 
way. When all was ready, the order to march was given. 
The muffled drums murmured softly a few bars, then 
ceased, and nothing was heard but the measured step of 
the soldiers. Again the drums muttered a lamentation, 
and were a second time hushed, and, for another space, 
only the relentless tread of the column marked the swift 
lapse of time. Once more the inarticulate drums gave 
forth a hoarse, tremulous, and long-drawn moan ; and the 
wind-instruments, as if they could no longer keep silence, 
broke into the first wild and melancholy strains of a dirge, 
and complained through the whole diapason. Slowly 
moved the music, slowly and silently marched the men. For 
some time not a voice was heard. Soberly, but serenely, 
walked the unfortunate friends to an inglorious death, 
cheered by no shouts, excited by no passions, stimulated 
by no ambition, raised above the consciousness of danger, 
and of all that makes death terrible, by no enthusiasm. 

Bulldon was the first to break silence. 

‘‘I say. Ally,” he observed, while the old s^ile, that 
used so witchingly to light up his countenance, still lin- 
gered about his eyes and gently parted his lips, the 
world will miss us ; we were going to do so many fine 
things for it.” 

''Of which it will know nothing,” returned Allerton, 
gravely. 

"True, it will never be conscious of its loss,” rejoined 
Bulldon. "They were but dreams,” he continued, 
thoughtfully, after a short pause, — "to be realized where 
we are going, perhaps.” 


238 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


Let us hope so/^ said Allerton ; and again they were 
silent. 

could bear up against all this so well, were it not 
for my poor mother.^’ And a tear rolled down Bulldon’s 
pale cheek as he said this. 

have not that sorrow,^’ replied Allerton. ^^My 
mother was long ago freed from all chances of grief on 
my account. Do you suppose that we shall recognize 
each other?” 

That question will soon be solved, and we shall know 
all,” answered Bulldon. ^‘Oh, Allerton, what a consola- 
tion to feel that we have always tried to do our duty ! ’ * 
he added, presently. 

His friend did not reply. Perhaps he was thinking, as 
every one must think at some time, how far short he had 
come of man^s whole duty, in spite of good intentions 
and oft-repeated resolutions. 

The wailing notes of the music, like voices of invisible 
spirits, rose and died away on the trembling air; the 
drums throbbed out their stifled beat ; and, as the music 
fell, the slow and measured tramp of the soldiers smote 
mournfully on the ear again. 

They had marched about one-half the distance to the 
place of execution when they suddenly heard rattling dis- 
charges of musketry, which rapidly increased in volume, 
and to which was soon added the booming of field artillery . 

A look of surprise ran through the ranks as the subdued 
exclamation, We are attacked !” passed from mouth to 
mouth. 

Our friends are saluting us,” said Bulldon. 

Oh, if we could but fall there, instead of failing 
here !” said Allerton. 

But the music and the march continued, and the sol- 
diers wore an unchanged mien, as if nothing had been 


A LUCKY SHOT. 


239 

heard, and as if no enemy were beating in their outer- 
most defenses. 

Presently the procession left the highway, and the 
scaffold, which had been shut from sight by the trees 
that lined the roadside, came into view. It was still 
some way off. Meantime the firing increased, and was 
plainly coming nearer. An aide-de-camp rushed by, an- 
nouncing that the enemy had assailed in force, was fast 
driving in the outposts, and was rapidly advancing. That 
was the affair of the commander of the post, and the 
procession moved on. As it gradually drew near the 
place of execution, a few shells, from the hostile batteries, 
fell not far from the head of the column. 

The Honorable Mr. Clappergong courageously and 
patriotically had volunteered to go with the officer whose 
duty it was to see the sentence done upon the prisoners, 
in order to behold the enemies of his party and of him- 
self, as he more particularly regarded them, put to 
death. 

On the first appearance of the shells, this Honorable 
gentleman suddenly, and with indecorous haste, retreated 
to the rear ; nor did he halt there, but continued his 
course in the direction of the fort with all the speed of a 
pair of very good legs. 

The missiles which had produced so startling an effect 
on the Honorable Pestyfog appeared to be only stray 
shots, and attracted little attention from the soldiers. 
Soon another came screaming along, and tore up the earth 
near the scaffold by its explosion. 

The procession had now reached the end of its sombre 
march, and the order to halt was given. The officer in 
command was on the point of forming his men, except 
the especial guard of the prisoners, in a hollow square 
around the place of execution, when another shell, as if 


240 


HOJV WILL IT END? 


guided by some pitying angeFs hand, struck the gibbet, 
and, exploding, left the machine of death a scattered ruin. 

While the officer was hesitating as if uncertain what 
to do, another shell burst so near his men that three of 
them were killed by it and as many more wounded. 
Seeing that the business which he had in hand could not 
be carried out there, he gave the order for a retrograde 
movement, and the procession was soon on its way to- 
wards the ibrt, the condemned men strictly guarded, and 
uncertain whether they had really obtained a respite by 
the destruction of the scaffold, or only a change in the 
manner of their execution. 

The firing, which had been kept up without pause, 
suddenly ceased as the prisoners with their escort reached 
the highway. * 

A battery of artillery, followed by a large body of in- 
fantry, was just then passing on their way to the front 
and in haste to join in the conflict. The procession was 
halted to allow these troops to go by. As the prisoners 
with their guards wheeled into the road when again put 
in motion, they cast their eyes in the direction from 
which the sound of firing, so unexpectedly silenced, had 
come, and saw in the distance the white folds of a flag of 
truce shining like an angel’s wing in the slant rays of the 
sun. The bearer was riding furiously, followed by two 
horsemen. Again and again they turn their heads to 
catch another glimpse of the signal for peace, though never 
so brief, as it is borne towards them far in their rear. Above 
the plumed caps of the intervening soldiers, above their 
glittering bayonets, it waves and shines and smiles. Now 
it is lost to view, as the little troop which brings it de- 
scends to the bottom of a valley. Now again it appears, 
rising from behind the ridge by which it has been hidden, 
rising above the undulating plumes and the bayonets 


A LUCKY SHOT. 


241 


swaying in the march of the receding infantry, like a sail 
dawning upon shipwrecked mariners from beyond the far- 
off horizon and the crested waves. Next the form of the 
bearer is seen ; then the bearer’s steed, with outstretched 
head and streaming mane, as he reaches the summit of the 
rising ground. The bearer is not a soldier ; is not a man ; 
is a woman ! On, on she comes, at headlong speed, the 
horsemen mercilessly urging their steeds to keep near her. 
With one hand she carries aloft the banner, with the 
other she waves something white, like a sheet of paper ; 
the bridle hangs loosely upon her horse’s neck. On she 
comes, meeting and rushing swiftly by the artillery, by 
the infantry. The men look at her with wonder and 
admiration as she plunges past. Every leap of the superb 
courser brings her nearer. It is Marion ! Trangolar and 
Cass follow her; they cannot keep by her side; their 
horses are not so swift as that furnished her by General 
Sterling, the friend in need ; a charger which has been 
on the race-course, has triumphed there, and seems to 
fancy that he is again running for a prize. And so he is, 
for a prize such as few horses have run for, and fewer still 
have won. She nears the procession, the flag in one hand, 
the paper yet waving in the other ; she dashes past the 
rear, on, on, on, with a few great bounds, to the head of 
the column, checks her horse as she reaches the officer in 
command, extends to him the order with one hand, while 
the flag droops and falls from the other, articulates feebly 
and with panting effort the words, ‘‘There! there 1” and 
falls fainting from her saddle. 

The officer caught her in his arms and sustained her till 
the surgeon, who had gone with the procession for a far 
different purpose, came to his aid. Together they bore 
her to the roadside and gently laid her upon the grassy 
bank. 


21 


242 


HOW WILL IT END? 


As he saw her fall, Allerton, forgetting everything but 
Marion’s presence and danger, started as if he would rush 
to her assistance, A sharp command from the guard re- 
called him to himself, and he leaned on Bulldon for sup- 
port, overpowered by the violence of his emotions. 

The procession had come to a standstill. Trangolar 
and Cass had reached the spot, had dismounted, and were 
waiting to give any help that might be required. 

Leaving the lady in care of the surgeon and these two 
faithful friends, the officer glanced at the order, resumed 
his place, gave the command to march, and the column 
^went on its way to the fort. 

The prisoners were remanded to the room in which 
they had been confined ; and the officer hastened to pre- 
sent General Devray’s order to the commander of the 
post, and report what had taken place. 

As the door closed on them, the two friends heard the 
- sound of firing, which seemed to be renewed by augmented 
forces and with increased violence. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

HELPLESS. 

The surgeon used his skill in vain. Marion showed 
no signs of returning consciousness. The road had now 
become thronged with troops, — artillery, infantry, cavalry, 
— all hurrying to the front. But neither the noise of the 
captains and the shouting, the tramp of the soldiers, the 
rattle of the drums, the pawing and neighing of the 
horses and the clatter of their iron hoofs, nor the rumble 


HELPLESS. 


243 


of artillery and the now incessant roar of fire-arms, could 
rouse the insensible girl, or call back the faintest tinge 
of red to her colorless cheeks. Trangolar mounted his 
horse and rode to the fort for an ambulance. Returning 
with it, he assisted the doctor to place the maiden’s help- 
less form in the vehicle. Then they proceeded to the 
house of Marion’s humble friend, where she had stopped 
before setting out to find her father. Cass followed, 
leading the horses. Upon arriving at this house, Trangolar 
hastily wrote a note to his sister, asking her to come and 
give Miss Devray such attention as she needed, and sent 
it by Cass to the tavern where the Sisters Mary and Mar- 
guerite were when he last saw them. Then he leaped 
upon his horse and rode off to watch the fight. He was 
not free to join in it, because he had been released on 
parole. Yet he could not resist the feverish impatience 
which he felt, and therefore went away without having 
learned anything of what had befallen the Sisters ; suppos- 
ing that they were still at the inn, where he had left them 
safe from all present danger, anxiety, or annoyance on 
their own account. Cass took the note to the tavern, as 
he had been directed. It is not necessary to say that he 
did not find Sister Marguerite there. Nor could he learn 
where she was. The landlord had disappeared, and a 
general consternation reigned among the servants who 
were left upon the place. Panic-stricken by the attack 
and the nearness of the battle, travelers and sojourners at 
the hostelry were ordering their horses and carriages in 
a frenzy of haste, cursing the inevitable delays, or, with 
trembling precipitation, themselves harnessing their own 
beasts and preparing to depart. In vain Cass asked 
where he might find the Sisters. He could get no intel- 
ligible answer, even when he met any one who would 
listen to his questions. So he brought the note back to 


244 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


the house where Marion was, under the care of the doctor 
and her humble friend, and remained near his mistress, 
in great distress for fear that she might never revive. 

Thus it happened that the Sisters were not informed of 
Trangolar’s return, nor he of their imprisonment; and 
they remained locked in a chamber at the fort, unable 
now to obtain such news of what was going on as even 
their guard could and would impart. For the sentinel 
placed at their door, in the excitement and confusion 
caused by the enemy’s unexpected assault, had left his 
post, after having turned the key on his prisoners, and by 
all else they were for the time forgotten. 

The distress of the two women was, if possible, in- 
creased by the complete isolation in which they now found 
themselves. They could hear the notes of alarm, of haste, 
of preparation, and the noise of marching columns, as 
troops were hurried to the field ; could hear the frightful 
explosions of artillery and small-arms, which seemed ever 
to increase in volume, and to come nearer ; yet could learn 
nothing certainly of what was taking place. It was easy 
to infer that an attack had been made, and that a battle 
was in progress. What the magnitude or promise of the 
fight might be, whether they were likely to be endangered 
by it, and, above all, what effect, if any, it had produced 
in delaying or hastening the execution of the officers in 
whom they appeared to feel so deep an interest, could 
not be inferred, and they were left in a state of harrowing 
uncertainty. As the hour in which the condemned men 
had been ordered to be put to death had passed some 
little time before the firing was heard, they could only 
conclude that the unfortunate prisoners were no more. 

Such a situation could not but excite in delicate women 
the most poignant agony of grief and solicitude, and to it 
Sister Marguerite completely abandoned herself. Sister 


HELPLESS, 


245 


Mary was calmer, tried to console her younger companion, 
and evidently strove to bear this great tribulation with 
resignation and tranquillity. 

Allerton and Bulldon, in their prison, hear the sounds 
of conflict drawing near, and know that their enemies are 
driven before their friends, who may reach and assault the 
fort. What can the prisoners do to aid them ? Nothing. 
They have not been deserted by their guard, a file of 
soldiers under command of a non-commissioned officer. 
They must wait ; they may hope. For, if their friends 
should be victorious ! if they should capture the fort ! 
Yes, they may hope, and they do. But will their guard 
permit these prisoners to be taken from them alive ? Prob- 
ably not. Probably orders have been given to prevent 
such a possibility, even. There is little hope for the 
prisoners’ lives, therefore. Yet they hope, but with much 
doubt and anxiety, — not so much, however, for their own 
safety as for the success of the attack and the victory of 
their friends. In comparison with the desire for the 
triumph of their cause, and of their brothers in arms, 
which has been excited by the contest now going on, all 
other wishes and solicitudes become unimportant. And 
they chafe, — chafe with burning impatience at the restraint 
which makes them helpless auditors of the conflict. 

Not so the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. When he 
reached the fort, after so suddenly leaving the procession 
on the first intimation that he was within range of the 
enemy’s guns, the firing had not yet ceased, such good use 
had he made of his legs. It occurred to him, in the midst 
of his trepidation, that it would be well for so patriotic a 
personage to give some plausible reason for his undignified 
speed. So he hastily, and with great apparent anxiety, 
which he doubtless felt, though not exactly for the cause 
which he would have made appear, informed the first 


246 BOW WILL IT END? 

persons of consequence whom he saw that the enemy had 
made an attack in great force, and was driving everything 
before him ; that not a moment was to be lost in sending 
reinforcements to the scene of action ; and that he was 
^ going for his horse and to look up stragglers about the 
village. Off he went at full speed towards the tavern, 
where his horse was stabled, although he had hardly re- 
covered his breath. He had not gone far when the firing 
lulled, as has been related. This was a great relief to 
the Honorable gentleman, for it so far reassured him that 
he changed his pace from a run to a dog-trot, and was 
thus enabled to recover his wind in a great measure. As 
the silence continued, this pace was, in turn, slackened to 
a slow and deliberate walk, while he put on a bold and 
defiant air. He was already devising some contempt- 
uous epithets to be applied to the enemy so soon as 
the loiterers about the tavern should be near enough to 
hear them, when he was startled by the recommencement 
of the firing. In a moment he was running again at his 
fastest gait, and, reaching the inn, he breathlessly called 
for his horse and a glass of brandy, said he was off to 
hurry up forces and volunteers from the neighborhood, 
mounted, and rode away as fast as his steed could carry 
him. 


A BARGAIN, 


247 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 

A BARGAIN. 

As has been said, Miss Mabie remained at the cottage 
where Clementine had enjoyed and suffered life, — where 
she had dreamed of bliss, had awakened to misery, and had 
sunk to that final sleep in which alone unchanging blessed- 
ness is known infinitely beyond the reach of the dearest 
dreams. There Miss Holdon learned enough to satisfy 
her that Ernest had as good reason as man can have to 
vow vengeance against the Honorable Mr. Clappergong, 
and she was afraid of him. Through that very fear 
Ernest unwittingly exercised a powerful fascination over 
her; and she kept near him, nervously expecting and 
dreading an outburst of his anger. Indeed, she had been 
very nervous and frightened since she heard that Allerton 
and Bulldon had been captured in trying to escape, and that 
the papers taken from Trangolar’s room had been found 
on the person of one of them. She was shrewd enough to 
know that this fact alone would go far to make their con- 
demnation at the approaching trial certain, even if she had 
not been told so. In spite of all her efforts to the con- 
trary, she could not but apprehend that the Honorable Mr. 
Clappergong was in some way implicated in this matter. 
She felt, therefore, sharp prickings of conscience for the 
part which she had played in the affair, and would gladly 
have made such an explanation as should free the Honor- 
able gentleman from blame and the young officers from 
the danger of an untimely and disgraceful end. The com- 


248 


HOPF WILL IT END? 


punction which she felt was very much increased by the 
solemnity which reigned in that chamber of death. Her 
heart was softened by its influences. Her compassion for 
the prisoners and her love for Marion and the Honorable 
Pestyfog grew stronger, and assumed a more magnanimous 
character. For she did love the Honorable gentleman 
still, in spite of all that the gossips said of his relations 
with Clementine. She was dead now, poor girl ! and Miss 
Mabie could not be jealous of her, but only pitied her. 
And, since she was no longer suspicious of Marion’s de- 
signs on the patriot’s noble heart, her tenderness for that 
amiable young lady, beloved by all who knew her, re- 
turned in augmented force. This very affection for Miss 
Devray was one source of her trouble, since she knew 
that Marion loved Allerton, and she feared the effect 
likely to be produced on her by the events which were 
imminent. She felt, also, much sympathy for the accused 
officers, whom she believed innocent of the intention with 
which they were charged, and which was so likely to be 
proved against them. They had been kind and respectful 
to her, and she entertained for them more than the inter- 
est of a passing acquaintance. The solemn and sorrowful 
event which had taken place in the cottage, and in whose 
presence she seemed to stand, coupled with the solicitude 
which she felt in regard to what might yet happen, in- 
spired her with humility and a desire to open her heart 
and confess what she had done, and, if possible, prevent 
the catastrophe which she dreaded. With the purpose to 
do this, she watched for an opportunity to talk with Ernest. 
She had not foresight or judgment enough to perceive that 
what she intended to do would necessarily compromise 
the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. In the simplicity of 
her heart, she believed that the Honorable gentleman had 
no malicious design, but had only indulged in a pleasantry 


A BARGAIN. 


249 


which now, unexpectedly and by accident, threatened 
serious consequences. In fact, her mind was in a painful 
state of confusion in regard to the whole affair. Her 
most powerful impulse was to try and get everybody out 
of the scrape by talking about it. 

At length the opportunity for which she had been 
waiting arrived, and, without appearing too obtrusive, she 
succeeded in obtaining Ernest's attention for a moment 
and introducing the subject which she had at heart. 
Anxiety and alarm made her even less cautious in regard 
to the possibility of bringing the Honorable Pestyfog into 
suspicion than she otherwise might have been. She told 
her preoccupied listener about Allerton and Bulldon ; 
how they came to General Devray's house; how Allerton 
had been nursed ; how Marion had fallen in love with 
him; how the guests, who had been so kindly treated, 
tried to escape, were arrested, and the papers found, — all 
clearly enough, but in a very disjointed way, without any 
regard to the logical order of events, and with many 
vain repetitions and digressions. She said if the young 
men were put to death she should never forgive herself, 
— oh, she knew she shouldn’t ! — for they were very 
proper and nice young men; and Miss Marion would 
never forgive her, — oh, she knew she wouldn’t ! — for she 
doted on Allerton. It was all her own fault, — oh, she 
knew it was ! She ought to have told Colonel Clapper- 
gong not to do it, — oh, she knew she ought! He was 
so jovial and fond of a joke! The open-hearted Colonel 
Clappergong! Miss Mabie really thought the Honor- 
able gentleman open-hearted, because he talked a great 
deal. 

At the mention of Colonel Clappergong, Ernest was at 
once aroused from his sorrowful abstraction, and turned 
fiercely towards the speaker. She cowered and trembled 


250 


HOW WILL IT END? 


before the calm but terrible expression of his dark eyes 
and compressed lips. 

What had he to do with this affair?’^ asked the grief- 
stricken young man, with a slow but fearfully distinct 
utterance. 

Why, you see, he asked me to get those papers from 
Captain Trangolar’s room, just to play a trick on the 
captain. He was very particular about his papers, the 
captain was,’* replied Miss Mabie, ready to cry ; and she 
went on to tell all that she knew, with such expressions 
of distress, both in voice and manner, as would have been 
ludicrous but for her sincerity and the gravity of the 
affair which was the subject of her story. Ernest had so 
much respect for her trouble that he partially restrained 
the natural outburst of his indignation ; but he could not 
refrain from muttering a terrible threat, the purport of 
which was caught by Miss Mabie, and she began to plead 
with him not to hurt Colonel Clappergong. He was in- 
nocent of any evil intention, she knew he must be ; he 
was inconsiderate, when he wanted to tease anybody ; he 
was eccentric, like all men of genius ; but he had not 
meant any harm, she knew he hadn’t; and she continued 
the uninterrupted stream of her tearful supplications, to 
which Ernest seemed to give little heed. He stood, 
apparently absorbed in thought. He was turning over in 
his mind the principal facts brought to his knowledge by 
Miss Holdon. He had received many kindnesses from 
General Devray, whom he loved and venerated. Perhaps 
he could do the daughter a service, and thus delicately 
acknowledge his obligations to the father ; while, at the 
same time, he should be performing an act of humanity 
and justice to a couple of honorable gentlemen, of whose 
gallantry in the field he had often heard. 

At length he put an end to Miss Mabie’ s overflow of 


A BARGAIN. 


251 


words, by asking suddenly if she would go with him to 

Fort arid repeat there the statements which she had 

made to him, provided that he would promise not to do 
Colonel Clappergong any bodily injury. She replied, 
with alacrity, that she would. 

^^Then let us set out at once,’’ said he. fear we 
shall be too late. ’ ’ 

Soon they were in the saddle, and on their way, accom- 
panied by an orderly of Ernest’s command, who had 
followed him to the cottage. 

They had ridden perhaps one-half the distance, when, 
on turning a sharp bend in the highway, they came face 
to face with the Honorable Pestyfog. 

Ernest was the last man whom the Honorable gentle- 
man would have wished to see ; and, had not their ap- 
proach been hidden by the trees and bushes which skirted 
the wayside, he would certainly have avoided this unwel- 
come party, even though he had been obliged to retrace 
his steps towards the scene of danger till he could turn 
into another road. As it was, he had wheeled his horse 
half round, when Ernest, suddenly drawing a pistol from 
his holster, and presenting it, ordered the Honorable 
gentleman to halt, emphaisizing the command by a threat 
which made that bold personage, turn pale. There was 
something in Ernest’s manner which convinced the patriot 
that the young officer meant exactly what he said. He 
therefore thought it best not to be headstrong, although 
he showed a great deal of indignation, and felt for the 
pistol which, as a chivalrous gentleman, he invariably 
carried concealed on his person, as he savagely demanded 
the reason for such treatment. The Honorable gentle- 
man was brave and defiant when he was sure of getting 
the first shot. Miss Mabie began to whimper. Ernest, 
paying no attention to her, and still keeping his pistol 


252 


BOW' WILL IT END? 


aimed at the Honorable Pestyfog, requested him to de- 
liver up his weapons. The politician seemed loath to 
comply with this demand ; but another emphatic threat 
made by the officer, while the orderly rode up on the 
opposite side, enforced obedience to the order. 

^^Now, sir,’^ said the Honorable Mr. Clappergong, 
^^will you have the goodness to tell me why I am treated 
in this outrageous manner?’* 

‘‘Certainly, sir,’* replied Ernest. “You know how 
you have forfeited your life to me. Had I followed my 
own impulses, I should have shot you at sight, as I would 
a thieving cur. You may thank this lady, and the angel 
whom you sent untimely back to heaven, that I have not 
done so. Besides, I want to use you, to prevent, if pos- 
sible, the accomplishment of some of your devilish pur- 
poses. I infer, from what Miss Holdon has told me in the 
innocence of her heart, that the lives of two gentlemen 
have been put in jeopardy by your villainous machina- 
tions. To save them, if it be not already too late, I 
have left the unburied remains of my poor sister, whom 
you murdered- ** 

“It’s a lie !’* broke in the Honorable gentleman. 

“Providence has thrown you in my way,” went on Er- 
nest, without heeding the interruption, “and you will 
now accompany us to Fort . If you go along peace- 

ably, I will not take your life. I have promised this lady 
not to kill you for what you have already done. I let my 
poor sister die in the belief that I would not avenge her 
wrongs and her death by putting an end to your con- 
temptible existence. But my promise binds me only as 
to what is past. Therefore, if your detestable life is dear 
to you, give me no further cause to rid the world of such 
a villain. March!” 

The Honorable gentleman obeyed with a bad grace, 


GLAD TIDINGS. 


253 


and an indescribable expression of smothered hate and 
ferocity; although, secretly, he congratulated himself 
on the prospect of getting out of that d — d scrape, as he 
called it, so easily, and evading punishment at the hands 
of Clementine’s brother. The orderly, who took the hint 
from his commander, rode beside the captive, ready to 
use his pistol instantly should the coerced patriot try to 
escape. Ernest and Miss Mabie followed them; and thus 
they all went towards Fort . 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

GLAD TIDINGS. 

Marion remained unconscious. The best skill of the 
kind surgeon and the most thoughtful care of the humble 
friend were powerless to conquer the hidden force which 
held all her faculties still as with the grasp of death. 
Motionless and pale as marble she lay ; and the perfection 
of form and exquisite chiseling of her features were all the 
more noticeable from the entire absence of color. 

Her delicate nature has been fearfully overtasked,” 
said the doctor, in a low voice, to the tender nurse, as they 
stood by the bedside watching their lovely patient. They 
had been so intent on humane duties as not to mark the 
varying sounds of the battle. Presently, however, a loud 
explosion of artillery was heard, evidently so much nearer 
than any previous discharge that the woman could hardly 
suppress a scream. 

‘‘Our friends are getting the worst of it, I am afraid,” 
said the surgeon, “and I ought to be in the field. The 
enemy is certainly pushing us back towards the fort.” 


22 


254 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


The volume and suddenness of this report seemed to 
awaken Marion, for she sighed heavily, moved her head a 
little, slowly opened her eyes, and looked vacantly at the 
doctor and her friend for a moment; then an almost 
imperceptible flush passed over her face, a brighter light 
flickered in her eyes, and she spoke: 

There, there she said, ‘‘read it, read it, quick 
Then she lifted her hands feebly to her head. “ Can’t 
you take this off my head, please? It is so heavy !” she 
murmured; and, closing her eyes, once more she was 
silent and motionless. The nurse bathed her brow, and 
chafed her temples and hands. 

Soon Marion opened her eyes again. “Where am I?” 
she asked, looking at the objects about her. “Did I — 
did I come in time? Did I?” 

“Oh, yes,” answered the doctor, who had been made 
acquainted with the nature of her errand and of the order 
which she had brought. “You arrived in good time, and 
the order has been obeyed.” 

“Thank God!” said Marion, and an expression of 
ineffable relief settled on her sw'^eet face. “ I am so tired, 
doctor,” she added, presently, with a sigh. 

“I do not wonder at that,” returned the surgeon. 
“ Try to sleep and rest now.” 

Marion shut her eyes, and, notwithstanding the in- 
cessant explosions of fire-arms, which came constantly 
nearer, she appeared to sink into a tranquil slumber. 
Nature, feeling the utter exhaustion caused by long- 
continued anxiety, apprehension, painful shocks, and 
harrowing excitements, coupled with great physical exer- 
tion, kindly administered to her child the sweetest and 
most potent balm, and wrapped the worn-out sufferer in 
forgetfulness. 

The surgeon made ready some medicines for the 


GLA£> TIDINGS, 


255 


patient when she should awake, and left particular direc- 
tions with the humble friend, then hurried away to his 
duties in the field. But he had not far to go. The 
forces of the army to which he belonged were receding 
towards the fortifications, though bravely contesting every 
inch of ground ; and the enemy was fast advancing. 
Presently, beaten at every point in the field, the troops 
who a short time before had gone out to aid their friends 
at the front, together with all the forces engaged upon 
that side, retreated to the fort and to the adjacent works. 
The enemy quickly followed up his advantage; and soon 
shot and shell began to fall upon, and into, the strong- 
hold. 

The Sisters Mary and Marguerite now felt a new terror ; 
for, even to the bravest and most resigned, the horrors 
of a battle are terrible. Every instant deadly missiles 
were striking near them. 

But this did not last long. The firing suddenly slack- 
ened, and from the ramparts a flag of truce was seen, 
already some distance in advance of the enemy’s lines. 
The cavalcade which it protected was small, comprising 
not more than half a dozen horsemen, who were approach- 
ing at an easy pace. 

Soon it was perceived that two of these were general 
officers, and, a few moments after, the characteristic colors 
of their uniforms, and some distinctive badges of rank, 
could be discerned. One of them bore the insignia pecu- 
liar to the combatants who had retreated to the fort; and 
on the other the distinguishing colors worn by their an- 
tagonists could be made out. Before long the superb 
horsemanship and majestic mien of the officer who belonged 
to the party which had been worsted showed him to be 
General Devray, and an enthusiastic shout of welcome 
ran along the line of defenders as he was recognized. 


256 


JIOW WILL IT END? 


The officer who rode beside this admired chieftain was 
General Sterling, commander of the assailants, not less 
noticeable for gallant bearing than was his companion. 
The commandant of the post, with his staff, went out to 
meet them ; and the cavalcade, halting a little way off, 
waited for him to come up. Trangolar, who had kept 
near to and watched the battle with the feelings of a brave 
man who sees his comrades beaten without power to lift a 
hand for them, now came forward. 

General Devray, addressing the commandant, said, — 

^‘Bya simultaneous movement of the enemy^s forces 
our armies have been, severally, compelled to surrender. 
Terms of capitulation have been signed, which embrace 
all our troops and fortified positions. By permission of 
the general-in-chief, to whom I gave up my swordl, I have 
come in person to direct that this place, with its garrison, 
and all the men under your control, be yielded to the 
conquerors. It is a hard fate ; but you have the consola- 
tion of knowing that no skill or bravery could avert it. 
Let us all accept this adverse fortune like soldiers who, 
having faithfully done their duty, can manfully abide the 
issue. ’ * 

The general did not say that solicitude on his daughter’s 
account had made him impatient to arrive at this military 
station as soon as possible. 

News that the war was over quickly spread among the 
troops on both sides, and was received with acclamations. 
Even the conquered forgot the pain of defeat in their joy 
at the dawn of peace. 

General Devray, leaving the officers to complete the 
final surrender, saluted them, and, with Trangolar, rode 
into the village, where he was greeted with every de- 
monstration of respect and affection by those who saw 
him. 


GLAD TIDINGS. 


257 


He had learned from General Sterling what his daugh- 
ter’s fortune had been, from the time she left him, to 
bring back the order, till she set out with the flag of truce. 
Trangolar was able to tell him the rest, up to the hour 
when he had quitted her to go and watch the progress of 
the fight. And they both went at once to the house where 
Marion had been left in care of the surgeon. She was 
still asleep ; but the general would not allow her to be 
wakened. Sleep is the best nurse, and happiness the best 
doctor, thought he ; and he sat down beside the pale and 
touchingly beautiful sleeper, and watched her in silence. 

Trangolar was surprised not to fincf his sister with Miss 
Devray, and asked Cass, somewhat sharply, if he had 
carried the note as directed. In reply the servant related 
what he had done, and that he could not find the lady. 
Still more surprised by this answer, though hoping that the 
man had made some mistake or had imperfectly done his 
errand, Trangolar went to the tavern. There he learned 
from the landlord, who was again in his place, what had 
happened to the Sisters, so far as that worthy was ac- 
quainted with the facts. He only knew that they had 
been arrested on suspicion that they were spies, and that 
they had been marched off to the fort. 

Away to that place hurried the brother, where he found 
the officer who had ordered the arrest, and upbraided 
him in no very gentle language. That person excused 
himself by saying that the seizure had been made at the 
suggestion of, and on information given by, the Honor- 
able Mr. Clappergong. Trangolar did not wait to learn 
the nature of the information, but, with an exclamation 
the reverse of a prayer that the Honorable Mr. Clapper- 
gong might be blessed, hastened to liberate the unfor- 
tunate Sisters, who were overjoyed to see him, as may 
be supposed. 

22* 


258 


now WILL IT END? 


One of the first of the many questions with which 
they overwhelmed him was whether the officers Allerton 
and Bulldon had been executed. When he answered in 
the negative, adding that they would now be set at liberty, 
Sister Marguerite threw her arms about his neck, and, 
hiding her face on his breast, sobbed for joy, while Sister 
Mary, falling on her knees, with uplifted hands, upturned 
face, and streaming eyes, silently offered to the Great 
Disposer of events a thanksgiving too fervent to find ex- 
pression in words. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

AN EXPLANATION. 

Meantime General Sterling had ascertained that the 
condemned men yet survived; and he at once ordered 
them to be brought to his headquarters, which were now 
established in one of the buildings within the fortifica- 
tions. When the liberated officers appeared, he greeted 
them with great warmth, and congratulated them on their 
escape. Nor could he. refrain from telling, with much 
enjoyment, of the practical joke he had played on their 
would-be executioners, in spoiling the scaffold by his well- 
aimed and lucky shot; for he himself had directed the 
shell which, as if by accident, had prevented the execution. 

As the reader is aware, the gibbet had been set up on a 
high ground, and could be seen from afar. After putting his 
supporting columns in motion, the general, with Marion, 
Trangolar, and Cass, had hurried on to the front. Taking 
a swift survey of the enemy’s position, he had noticed the 


AN EXPLANATION 


259 


procession, as it marched up the slope, and, by the aid 
of his glass, had made out the scaffold. He knew for 
whom that structure had been erected. Hastening to a 
gun, which was already at work throwing shells, he directed 
it to be turned on the mark placed for it unawares, and 
himself aimed the shots which had terrified the Honorable 
Mr. Clappergong, destroyed the gibbet, and sent the 
prisoners, with all their escort, back to the fortifications. 

Bulldon had bravely borne up, and carried a serene de- 
portment, all through the trying hours which had passed, 
notwithstanding his weakness, and the fatigue of the 
march to and from the place prepared for their execution. 
But the revulsion of feeling caused by the removal of all 
necessity for self-command, and the consequent sudden 
relief to his heavily-tasked nervous system, overcame him, 
and he sank into a chair, faint and helpless. A glass of 
the general’s excellent brandy revived him shortly, how- 
ever, and the young men heard, with heartfelt pleasure, 
the news which their friend and, in some sense, preserver 
had to tell. 

As he related what Marion had done in their behalf, 
Allerton’s heart beat fast, and he could not trust himself 
to speak. But his thoughts were busy. He felt that he 
must make some acknowledgment of her generosity. He 
would write her a letter of thanks. That he ought, of 
necessity, to do, or appear, which he was not, most in- 
sensible and ungrateful. But he would not see her ; no, he 
would not even try to see her again. He would save him- 
self useless mortification and pain and spare her needless 
annoyance. Aside from any other motive, he was bound in 
honor, and by proper feelings of delicacy, not to endeavor, 
or to seem to desire, even, to take advantage of what she 
had done from an impulse of humanity. Yes, she had a 
kind heart. He would go away as soon as possible, and ^ee 


26 o 


WILL IT END? 


her no more, not even by chance. Now that his country 
had no further need of his services, he would resign his 
commission, go abroad, and, in foreign lands, seek the 
entertainments of a purposeless existence. 

Bulldon was warm in his praises of Marion’s bravery 
and magnanimity. He was even more profuse in his ex- 
pressions of admiration than he otherwise would have 
been, perhaps ; for he had noticed the emotion which his 
friend could not wholly conceal, and wished to make a 
diversion in his favor. 

Some of their brother officers came in, to see and felici- 
tate them, whenever free to do so, and conversation went 
gayly on. They were all engaged in a lively discussion 
of the stirring and propitious events which had taken 
place in the last twenty -four hours, when Trangolar 
entered, and heartily added his congratulations to the 
rest. His face expressed particular animation as he 
shook Bulldon’s hand and inquired of his health with 
interest. 

‘‘Are you strong enough to bear a surprise ?” he asked, 
when Bulldon had informed him that his hurt was only a 
trifling matter after the first benumbing effect had passed 
away. 

“Certainly, if it were a pleasant one,” answered the 
wounded officer, smiling. 

Come with me, then,” said Trangolar. Giving his 
anil to the invalid, he led him across the grounds to the 
apartment in which the Sisters had been imprisoned, where 
they yet remained, and, telling him to enter, withdrew 
and retired to his comrades. 

As he stepped into the room, Bulldon saw only Sister 
Mary. She ran to him, and, in a moment, was folded to 
his heart as he murmured, — 

“Ah, mother ! at last !” 


AN EXPLANATION 


261 


My darling boy !” she responded, her voice subdued 
by the intensity of affection. 

Tears were shining in the eyes of each of them, as 
Sister Mary, who may now be called LadyX., disengaged 
herself from his embrace to look at her son. 

Then they seated themselves, and asked many common- 
place questions and made many commonplace remarks 
about the health and appearance of each other, and the 
gladness given them by this meeting. But these questions 
and remarks were as full of heartfelt meaning as if they 
had never been uttered before. 

When Bulldon entered this room. Sister Marguerite had 
turned away and quietly gone out before she was observed 
by him. He only noticed her retreating form as she dis- 
appeared. 

‘‘Was that Sister Mary who went out?” he asked of his 
mother. 

“That? No. I am Sister Mary,” she replied. 

“You Sister Mary?” exclaimed he, with a look of in- 
credulity. “But you are not the Sister Mary mentioned 
in your letter ?” 

“ Certainly I am ” 

“And you did not come at once to see me; did not 
ask to see me ; might not have seen me at all !” 

“ I did what I thought was best, my son. Think a 
little. You were wounded and ill, — very ill, I was told. 
Strict orders had been given that no one should see you 
till after your trial. Then I expected confidently to make 
myself known to you. I feared the effect which might be 
produced on your health by my appearance, unless you 
were first made to expect me. With this view I sent the 
last letter which you received from me. Before your trial 
came on, I was suspected of being a spy, of having a secret 
understanding with you and your friend ; was seized, and 


262 


HOJV WILL IT END? 


held a close prisoner, and permitted no intercourse with 
any one. For fear of strengthening suspicion, and thus 
defeating my own purpose, I said nothing of my relation- 
ship with you until the last moment, still hoping to be re- 
leased in time to see you should the worst befall us. Then 
I wrote a petition to the commandant, in which I stated 
that I was your mother, and implored permission to see 
you once more. To this petition I received no answer, 
and waited, with such feelings as you, my son, can imagine, 
as the time named for your execution drew near and 
passed by. ’ ^ 

Indeed you must have suffered torments. What a 
mother you are, darling ! — always thinking of and trying to 
spare me, and never considering yourself. But how did 
you find me? How did you get upon my track?’* 

‘‘When I arrived in this country, some weeks ago, I 
learned, on inquiry, that you had visited often at the 
house of Madam Stanley, and that there I should prob- 
ably be able to have news of you. So I called, and, on 
making myself known, was treated with great kindness and 
hospitality, and received every delicate, respectful, and 
generous attention from Miss Marguerite. Her mother 
happened at the time to be absent from home. 

“ I had noticed that Marguerite betrayed some emotion 
when I mentioned your name and told her that I was your 
mother ; and I feared that she had bad news to impart. 
But, beyond the fact of your having been taken and de- 
tained a prisoner, she assured me that she knew of no 
accident which had befallen you.” 

Bulldon was now even paler than when he entered the 
room, and listened with painful attention. His mother 
continued : 

“ She gave me what information she possessed in regard 
to you, and I could see that it was such as only a more 


AJV EXPLANATION. 


263 


than ordinary interest could have gathered. I perceived, 
as I thought, evidence of tender affection on her part, 
and presently found a way to draw from her the story of 
your mutual love, until your return, after your journey 


^‘Yes, yes,” said Bulldon, in a husky voice, interrupt- 
ing his mother in her recital, ‘^and then?” 

^^She was expecting you with all the impatience of 
love ; had received a note, saying that you would be with 
her in the evening, when the happiness which she felt in 
the assurance of so soon seeing you again was increased 
by the unexpected arrival of her brother ' ’ 

‘^Her brother!” 

^^Yes. He had taken up arms with the party on this 
side of the hostile lines, and she had not seen him for a 
long time. Now he had been obliged to come clandes- 
tinely, and keep his presence a secret from all except the 
members of his own family. ^ ^ 

I remember now. She told me that she had a brother 
who was an officer in the enemy’s army; that is, of the 
party opposed to the cause in which the sympathies of her- 
self, her friends and neighbors were enlisted.” 

He did not think it prudent to be seen even by the 
servants, and sent a written message requesting her to 
meet him in a glen, at the bottom of their garden. 
Thither she went, as evening was coming on ; and the in- 
terview lasted longer than she expected, they had so many 
things to say to each other. When she returned to the 
house, whither she hastened as soon as her brother had 
gone, she learned that you had been there, and, not 
finding her, said that you would call again later. She 
waited for your coming with trembling impatience, in- 
creased by the feeling that, somehow, she had been to 
blame in being absent when you were expected, But you 


264 


nopy WILL IT END? 


did not come. In the morning, after a sleepless and 
wretched night, she received a very short letter from you, 
containing an insinuation which she could not compre- 
hend, and giving her to understand that she would see 
you no more.** 

Yes,** said Bulldon, speaking as if with an effort, 
did write such a letter. * * 

^‘She reviewed all her conduct over and over again, 
but could remember nothing that she had done which 
should give you cause for offense. ‘You know I could 
not possibly have done him any wrong willingly,* she said, 
with tears in her eyes, ‘ for I loved him so much. * Cer- 
tain that you must be laboring under some cruel error, and 
conscious of her own rectitude, she wrote to you, begging 
an explanation of your note, and assuring you that she 
could not even guess the fault to which you alluded. ‘ I 
esteemed him so much,* said she, ‘ that I was sure he could 
not have used a pretext for the purpose of freeing himself 
from his engagements ; and I felt that it was more noble 
in me, at such a time, to disregard the promptings of what 
is called womanly pride.* To this letter she had no 
answer. * * 

“ I never received it,** said Bulldon, in the same husky 
voice. “ I joined the army immediately, and was almost 
constantly in motion till taken prisoner.** 

“She soon heard of your sudden departure, and your 
destination,** went on LadyX., “and, through the news- 
papers and other channels, had frequent accounts of you, 
up to the time when you were captured.** 

“What a stupid brute, what a villain, I have been !** 
said Bulldon. 

“Following my promptings, she told me all this so 
sweetly, so tearfully, and with such becoming modesty and 
candor, that, for the first time in my life, I was almost 


AN EXPLANATION 


265 


angry with you. Yet I felt certain that you were acting 
under some mistake, or the influence of some false repre- 
sentation, which would be removed if she could see you ; 
and that you had suffered as much as she. I told her 
so.” 

‘‘And you were right, as you always are, my dear 
mother,” cried Bulldon, energetically. 

“My confidence in the truth of this supposition gave her 
great relief and pleasure. I told her that I was on my way 
to find you, and asked her to accompany me, for my sake, as 
well as for her own and yours. At first she hesitated, evi- 
dently thinking that such a proceeding would appear un- 
maidenly; but I overcame her scruples by urging the plea 
that I should myself much need her companionship. As 
soon as was proper after her mother’s return, that lady was 
made acquainted with my wishes. While sympathizing 
heartily with me, and desiring to give me every assistance 
in her power, she was very unwilling that Marguerite should 
pursue the course 'which I had marked out. Yet my 
arguments, and her daughter’s manifest wishes, at length 
prevailed ; the more easily, perhaps, because Marguerite, 
who had been plainly suffering in health, as well as in 
spirits, showed already greatly increased animation and 
cheerfulness from the anticipation of again seeing you, and 
having this, to her, dreadful mystery cleared up. Our 
plans were soon formed ” 

“Is she here?” asked Bulldon, with sudden vivacity, 
breaking in upon his mother’s narration. 

“Wait a little, my son, and you will learn,” replied 
Lady X. “ She took the dress of a Sister of our order, as 
a disguise, and to make the accomplishment of our purpose 
more easy. We obtained letters which facilitated our 
progress to, and across, the lines, and, after some inquiry, 
ascertained that you were here ” 

23 


266 


HOW WILL IT END? 


^^Then she is with you!’^ cried Bulldon, rising. ‘‘It 
was she who left the room as I came in. Why does she 
avoid me? But I will go to her.’’ 

“ Not yet, my son,” said Lady X., calmly. “ First let 
me hear your explanation ; for I am sure that you have 
one.” 

Bulldon related to her what had taken place on the 
evening when he last called to see Marguerite ; and his 
abrupt action in consequence, as he had previously told 
the story to Allerton. 

“And now can I see her?” he asked, with lively im- 
patience. 

“Remain here, and I will bring her to you,” said his 
mother in reply. And she left the room. 

Crossing the grounds. Lady X. discovered Marguerite 
in a retired nook, seated on a castaway portion of a gun- 
carriage ; and, drawing near, saw that she had been weep- 
ing. Traces of tears still rested on her sweet face, as she 
raised it towards her friend with a timidly questioning 
look. Lady X. kissed her affectionately, replying to this 
look only by a reassuring smile, and, twining her arm in 
that of the lovely girl, led her, without the interchange 
of a word either of inquiry or encouragement, back to the 
room where Bulldon was waiting, walking up and down to 
relieve the oppressed beating of his heart. When they 
reached the door. Lady X. opened it, and bade Marguerite 
enter. The trembling maiden obeyed with downcast eyes 
and a mingled feeling of timidity and eagerness, which 
seemed to take away all her strength. Lady X. did not 
go in, but gently closed the door, and withdrew to the 
secluded corner where she had found Marguerite. But 
before the door was shut she heard her son exclaim, — 

“ Oh, my darling ! my angel ! can you ever forgive 
me?” 


A STONE BEATS WITNESS. 


267 


And she caught a glimpse of the dear girl sinking, 
speechless with blissful emotion, into the outstretched 
arms of her lover. 

Bulldon’s statement of the cause of his sudden jealousy 
and unpardonable haste in acting upon it was soon made ; 
and from her own lips he heard Marguerite^ s story of her 
brother’s visit. 

‘‘You might have heard it all from him, if you had 
wished,” said she, with a look half pouting, half smiling. 

“ But I never saw him,” said Bulldon. 

“ He brought you to your mother just now.” 

“ What ! Trangolar ?’ ’ 

“Yes; he is only my half-brother, but as good to me 
as a whole one.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

A STONE BEARS WITNESS. 

As the day was fast declining, Marion awoke, after a 
tranquil and refreshing sleep. Her mind was at first a 
little confused ; and she felt a dull and painful depression, 
and an indefinable sense of some great loss. When she 
saw her father, a thrill of joy ran through her, and called 
a flush of pleasure to her face, and a sweet smile to her 
lips. But his unexpected — or rather, as it seemed to her, 
sudden — appearance by her bedside increased the vague 
uncertainty which, for a few moments, weighed upon her. 
His explanation of what had occurred was shortly given, 
and he withdrew to the little parlor of the house, where 
Marion presently joined him. There, as she told him the 
whole story of her acquaintance With Allerton; their 


268 


JIOIV WILL IT END? 


mutual love ; how he had undeceived her ; and with what 
severity she had repelled him, just as he and his amiable 
friend were about to attempt a return to their comrades, 
— for she concealed nothing, — the languor which she had 
^ felt on waking gradually gave place to natural excitement 
and animation, and the rich rose-tints came back to her 
pale cheeks. 

Her father listened with tender interest, but said little. 
Indeed, he had small opportunity to speak till Marion^s 
eloquent recital was finished. Her hopes were greatly 
encouraged by one remark which he made. 

Allerton?'' said he; ‘H had a schoolfellow of that 
name once, who was my friend for years afterwards. And 
a better friend, or a nobler man, cannot be found. If 
this be his son, as is possible, I shall be right glad to see 
him, and he will find me much prejudiced in his favor.’' 

Just as Marion had ended her narrative. Miss Mabie 
rushed into the room, and, throwing her arms about the 
astonished young lady, gave vent to her feelings in a fit 
of hysterical weeping. 

Ernest and his party had made haste, and, as they drew 
near to the village, received, from one and another whom 
they met, news of the great events which had recently 
taken place. Arrived at the town, they easily found out 
where General Devray and his daughter were, and came 
directly to the house. 

On learning the turn which affairs had taken, the Hon- 
orable Mr. Clappergong had shown some restiveness, and 
a disposition to demand his release from the arrest in 
which he had been placed by Ernest, but was admonished 
that his present and future immunity from summary 
punishment at the hands of that officer depended on his 
quiet submission until the purposes of his captor should 
be accomplished. The Honorable gentleman protested 


A STONE BEATS WITNESS. 


269 


that he was ready to give, in a gentlemanly way, any 
satisfaction which might be asked; but Ernest asserted 
that he did not propose to deal with him after that fashion ; 
that the mode suggested might, or might not, be an 
appropriate way enough for the settlement of accidental 
differences between gentlemen, but was one to which 
housebreakers and murderers must not, in any case, aspire. 
With a bad grace the patriot made a virtue of necessity, 
and rode on, under the unobtrusive but vigilant guard 
of the orderly. 

Leaving his prisoner in charge of this faithful soldier, 
Ernest sent his name to General Devray, with a request for 
an immediate interview; which was at once granted, and 
the young officer was shown into the room. As he entered, 
Ernest remarked that the ladies, Marion and Miss Mabie, 
were about to withdraw, and he expressed a wish that they 
would remain. Then, in few words, he made known what 
he had learned from Miss Holdon in regard to the taking 
of the papers ; stated concisely and forcibly his own infer- 
ence from the facts which she had brought to light, and 
desired that person to repeat her account ; which, by the 
aid of some questions from him, she did in a reasonably 
short time. But, now that the unexpected change of 
circumstances made it appear to her that no immediate 
harm to any one was likely to come from the removal and 
discovery of those papers, and she was thus relieved from 
some of her most terrifying apprehensions, — freed, also, 
from the solemn and softening influences which affected 
her at Clementine’s cottage, — her heart contracted to its 
ordinary size, and all its small stock of sympathies was 
given to the patriotic and eloquent object of her love. 
By a process not very unusual in human experience, re- 
sulting from the change in her feelings, she began to 
believe that the Honorable Mr. Clappergong was very 

23* 


270 


irOPV WILL IT END ? 


much abused ; was, in fact, fast becoming a martyr. She 
was sure that he had no purpose other than what he had 
mentioned when he asked her to bring him the drawings, 
— namely, to tease Captain Trangolar; and certainly he 
never put them in Colonel Allerton’s boot. What in the 
world should he do that for? she should like to know; 
indeed she should. It was more probable that he had left 
them somewhat exposed, and that Colonel Allerton, finding 
them accidentally, had tried to make the most of them. 
The more she protested, the more she believed this expla- 
nation, till her faith in the entire innocence of the 
unjustly suspected and outraged politician could not be 
shaken. 

As she uttered the insinuation against Allerton, Marion 
cast upon her a withering look of indignation and con- 
tempt ; which, however, produced no other effect than to 
increase her positiveness and vehemence. 

When Miss Mabie was at length quieted, Ernest said 
that the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong was at the door, 
and wished to pay his respects to the general. On hear- 
ing this, Marion drew her father to one side, and talked 
with him a moment in. a low voice; then she left the 
room, and General Devray asked Ernest to introduce the 
Honorable gentleman. 

The patriot came in, showing an unabashed mien, and, 
saluting the general with an effusion of cordiality, began, 
in his usual oracular manner, to talk of the surrender, 
which he vowed he could not understand ; and he more 
than intimated that there must have been treachery and 
cowardice somewhere, which had brought about this 
disgraceful and everyway unnecessary termination of the 
war. 

General Devray said but little in reply. He con- 
tented himself with calmly stating some of the reasons 


A STONE BEATS WITNESS. 


271 


which, in his judgment as a military man, made the 
surrender, or a great and useless outpouring of blood, 
inevitable. 

The Honorable Mr. Clappergong would have preferred 
drowning in blood to surrender. No people was ever 
conquered which did not deserve to be. As for himself, 
he would rather have been killed, and that all his parti- 
sans, to a man, should have been killed, or driven into 
the sea, with arms in their hands, to dwell with crabs and 
devil-fish, than surrender to, and be obliged to live in 
the same country with, their detested, dishonorable, 
and cowardly enemies. But there was one consolation. 
The men who had laid down their arms would live to 
fight another day; and, though their armies had been 
surrendered, their disputes, demands, and theories had 
not. 

Ernest said nothing ; and General Devray seemed will- 
ing to let the Honorable gentleman go on, and occupy 
time for the present, with the expression of his brave and 
patriotic sentiments. 

While this conversation, if such it might be called, was 
going forward, Marion had sent Cass with a message to 
Jim Hunter, requesting that he would come to her imme- 
diately. Fortunately, Jim had not been hurt in the recent 
fight. He was easily found, and soon made his appear- 
ance in obedience to the summons. Marion took the 
stone, which he had sold her, from her purse, handed it 
to him, and gave him instructions what to do. Then she 
returned to her father, coldly acknowledging the Hon- 
orable Mr. Clappergong’ s salutation as she came in, and 
took a seat by Miss Mabie, who was silently enduring 
tortures of apprehension lest the Honorable Pestyfog 
should never forgive her for having made the disclosures 
which had been the cause of his unwilling return to the 


272 


irofv WILL IT END? 


village, and lest Ernest should make her repeat, in the 
Honorable gentleman’s presence, what she had already- 
stated to General Devray. 

Jim was clever enough to understand and play his part 
reasonably well. An attendant came and told General 
Devray that a soldier wished to see him. It was charac- 
teristic of this officer always to receive his soldiers, when 
they came to him, if he could ; and he directed the ser- 
vant to introduce the man. Jim entered, stopped near 
the door, and saluted. 

^^Well, my man,” said the general, ‘^what did you 
wish with me ?’ ’ 

^^Why, if you please, sir,” replied Jim, ^‘1 thought 
maybe you, or some of the gentlemen, might like to buy 
some plunder that I’ve got here.” 

What is it?” asked the general. 

Well, it ain’t nothin’ very big, but I ’spectit’s worth 
somethin’ handsome. It’s this here, if you please, sir,” 
said the man ; and, drawing the stone from his pocket, 
he handed it to his commander. 

That is a valuable stone,” exclaimed the general. 
^^It must have been taken from a ring.” 

^^Mayl see- it?” asked the Honorable Mr. Clapper- 
gong, pricking up his ears. ^^Why, this is mine, you 
thieving rascal ! Where did you get it?” he cried, as he 
saw the gem. Marion said nothing ; but she was, as the 
saying is, all eyes and ears. 

ain’t no thievin’ rascal, sir,” said Jim; and, if 
you wants to know where I got that there stone, I don’t 
mind tollin’. ” 

Are you positive that it is yours?” asked the general 
of the Honorable gentleman. 

Sure of it, sir. There is not another stone like that 
in the country. I lost it out of my ring a day or two ago. 


A STONE BEATS WITNESS. 


273 

I have looked everywhere for it in vain, and would not 
sell it at any price/* 

The Honorable gentleman had always affected to esteem 
the jewel much above its intrinsic value. And some of 
his cronies had heard not very mysterious intimations 
from him that it was one of the most cherished of his 
trophies won in the fields of love. 

‘Ht would be unfair to deprive this poor fellow of his 
prize,’* said the general, ‘‘unless you are positive of its 
identity.** 

“Why, general,** replied the patriot, “I am as sure of 
the identity of that stone as I am of my own ; besides, if 
you notice, there is a peculiar mark on it. I will swear 
that it is mine, if that be necessary. And see here,** he 
added, taking from his purse a ring which lacked the stone 
that it had evidently been made to hold, ‘ ‘ you see how it 
fits my ring.** 

The gem did, indeed, fit the ring perfectly. 

“I am afraid, my good fellow,” said General Devray 
to Jim, “that you will not be able to sell the stone. It 
belongs to this gentleman, as you perceive. Now let us 
hear how you came by it.” 

Encouraged by a look and sign from Marion, Jim re- 
counted how he found the jewel, as he had previously told 
her. The Honorable gentleman saw the trap into which 
he had fallen, when it was too late. . 

“ In your haste, when you put those papers into Colonel 
Allerton’s boot,” said Ernest, “that stone fell or was 
dragged from its setting.” 

“It*s a lie!” replied the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. 

“None of us think so,” remarked General Devray, 
sternly, “and we can dispense with your further company, 
sir.” 

But the general was mistaken. Miss Mabie did think, 


274 


HO IV WILL IT END? 


as the object of her interest and admiration had asserted, 
that somehow, but how she could not exactly tell, it was a 
lie. 

beg your pardon, general, but, if you please, let 
this man stay a little longer,^’ said Ernest. He will not 
faint, even should he nbt go at once into the open air. 
I told you, sir,’^ he continued, addressing the politician, 
^^that this lady, Miss Holdon, in the kindness and inno- 
cence of her heart, had informed me how you came by 
those drawings. She was ignorant that, in so doing, she 
gave the clue by which your web of villainy could be un- 
raveled; this particular one, I would say. You, there- 
fore, have no cause of anger against her ; on the contrary, 
you owe her a debt of gratitude, for her entreaties, joined 
to those of one whom I will not name in your presence, 
have, for a time at least, disarmed my vengeance. You 
know what that means. What I have to propose is a poor 
return for her generosity, yet one which she is amiable 
enough to desire. It is this: Within an hour you will 
seek out a magistrate, and be married to this forgiving 
lady, whom you have wooed but with a purpose to deceive. 
The orderly who conducted you here, and this honest fel- 
low, Jim Hunter, shall serve you as witnesses, and will not 
leave you till she is your wife. On condition that you 
consent to do this, and ever after treat her as a good hus- 
band should, you shall be permitted to retire to the obscu- 
rity from which you ought never to have emerged, — where 
contempt, even, will scarcely follow you ; otherwise, you 
must take the consequences of your cowardly conduct. I 
beg you, sir,” added Ernest, turning to General Devray, 
^‘to give what I propose your sanction.” 

As for me,” said the general, have no objection 
to make. Miss Mabie is competent to speak for herself.” 

‘^Do you consent freely, in the presence of these wit- 


A STONE BEATS WITNESS, 


275 

nesses, to marry this woman ?’^ asked Ernest of the chop- 
fallen patriot. 

The Honorable gentleman hesitated a few moments, 
consent,’^ said he, at length. 

‘^Freely?” demanded Ernest. 

Freely,’^ replied the Honorable Pestyfog, in a dogged 
tone. 

^^And you. Miss Holdon,” said Ernest, respectfully, to 
Miss Mabie, ‘‘will you take this man for your husband?’^ 

“Indeed I will,’^ answered the spinster, throwing her 
head back ; and, marching up to the persecuted bride- 
groom, she took his passive hand, unable wholly to con- 
ceal a feeling of triumph and exultation, and a certain 
show of defiance, intended for those who were disposed to 
think the Honorable Mr. Clappergong a very mean man. 

“Go, then ; and be made man and wife without delay, 
said Ernest. “I will conduct you to the door.’^ And he 
led them to where the orderly was waiting. Jim Hunter 
followed. 

Ernest directed the two soldiers to go with the couple, 
and not to leave the Honorable Pestyfog, nor allow him 
to leave them, till the ceremony should be performed. 
He then returned to General Devray and Marion. 

“I am afraid, sir,” he said to his commander, “that I 
have seemed too bold in your presence. But Miss Devray 
can tell you by what terrible sacrifice and wrongs I have 
the equitable, if not the legal, right to dispose of that man. ” 

And, bidding the father and daughter farewell, he only 
lingered in the village till he knew that his orders had 
been obeyed, and that Miss Mabie had become Mrs. 
Clappergong. Then he mounted his horse, and returned 
alone to the house of mourning. 

And Marion, who had heard it from the Sisters, told 
her father the story of Clementine. 


276 


JIOPF WILL IT ENDi 


CHAPTER XLI. 

SOUNDING BRASS. 

Allerton stayed at General Sterling’s headquarters, 
rather enduring than joining in the lively talk which, was 
carried on there, except when he was personally addressed. 
For, though seemingly observant of what was passing, his 
thoughts were occupied with a far different subject. He 
was sorely perplexed as to the import of Marion’s generous 
'and heroic conduct in behalf of Bulldon and himself. 
At one moment he was ready to believe that it indicated 
a disposition on her part to retract the angry words 
which she had uttered when she last spoke of him \ the 
next, he was certain that she had been impelled only by 
motives of humanity, and a wish not to cause or permit 
injustice. 

Worn out in body and mind by long-continued excite- 
ment and want of rest, and, as a natural consequence, 
depressed in spirits, the least hopeful inference appeared 
to him the most probable ; and he gradually became more 
decided in his resolution to write her a letter of acknowl- 
edgment and so bid her farewell, then to leave the country 
as soon as he could properly do so. Happily, his fortune 
was so ample that he need not be deterred from following 
this plan by any obligation to practice frugality. 

His attention was presently recalled more particularly 
to the conversation going on about him by the loud voice 
and arrogant manner of a person who had entered the 


SOUNDING BRASS. 


277 


room and at once taken part in, or rather engrossed, 
the discussion, and whose tone and language expressed 
great dissatisfaction. 

This person was the Honorable Schisterlow Brasstinkle. 
He had ^^run down’^ to the army commanded by Gen- 
eral Sterling, while it was lying inactive, waiting till the 
preparations for a simultaneous advance of all the forces 
which fought upon that side should be completed. Here, 
by virtue of his political position, he had access to the 
officers, and signalized his zeal for the cause in which 
they were engaged by finding all manner of fault with 
the method of conducting the war, and by urging an im- 
mediate advance of that portion of the troops, without 
reference to any concert of action or military readiness ; 
calling the delay by some very hard names ; intimating 
to others that the commanding general ought to be dis- 
placed and a fighting man put in his stead, — one who 
would despise manoeuvres and strategy, and seek only to 
engage the enemy in any circumstances, however disad- 
vantageous to his own army, and try to conquer by the 
use of brute force alone ; who would not dilly-dally, and 
refrain from striking, because his reinforcements had not 
arrived, or because he had not all the equipments, or 
munitions, or discipline, which he might choose to think 
necessary, particularly if he wished an excuse for inaction ; 
and, generally, giving, all the time, and in the most con- 
fident tone, such advice in regard to warlike operations, 
and what ought, in his opinion, at once to be done, as 
might be expected from a man wholly ignorant of mili- 
tary affairs, and who was bent upon standing at the head, 
as the champion, of any popular notion in which a ma- 
jority of the people concurred, or was likely to concur, 
and upon claiming the credit of suggesting every move- 
ment which should succeed ; while the discredit of failure 
24 


278 


HOW WILL IT END? 


would naturally be thrown on those who were really 
responsible, — that is, the officers in command. 

As soon, however, as there was a sign that the opposing 
forces were on the eve of an engagement, the officers were 
freed, for a time at least, from all annoyance caused 
them by this Honorable gentleman. For he thought 
his life of too much value to the country to be exposed 
to destruction by a stray shot, and considered it pru- 
dent to retire to a safe distance in the rear, preferring 
to learn from stragglers, couriers, and others, as he could, 
how matters were going on in the field, ready to lead, 
by a long way in advance, a retrograde movement or a 
retreat. 

Happily for him, in this instance, he had no occasion 
to put his speed to the test. It was, however, already well 
known ; for, on a memorable emergency, it had kept him 
far ahead in a hurly-burly flight, when every one made 
the best time he could. It was admitted that the Honor- 
able Schisterlow Brasstinkle had, in that notable race, dis- 
tanced all competitors. But it cost him a yearly fee ever 
after, which was expended in the application of dye to his 
luxuriant hair, since a remarkable consequence of that race 
was that his dark locks suddenly turned gray. He said 
this change of color was produced by hard and long-con- 
tinued mental labor, and patriotic anxiety for the success 
of the only party through which the country could be 
saved. Others said, and more truly, that the alteration 
was caused by the fright which he suffered during that 
race. 

As soon as news of the surrender reached him, far 
in the rear, he hastened forward to headquarters, to tell 
how he had always insisted that a vigorous onward move- 
ment would speedily end the war, and to learn all the terms 
and particulars of the capitulation. As the information 


SOUNDING BRASS, 


279 

sought was imparted to him, he uttered many expressions 
of impatience, contempt, and displeasure. 

Like the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong, he feared 
that his occupation was gone. Indeed, there was a strong 
resemblance between the two Honorable gentlemen. They 
belonged to the same class ; but individual interests caused 
them, for the time being, to stand opposed to each other 
in politics ; that is, in their professed principles. They 
would as readily have acted in unison had they each seen 
the prospect of as great, or greater, personal profit by so 
doing. Both, as legislators, had been in the practice of 
selling what each called his country, for ‘^a considera- 
tion;’^ that is, had been ready, for his own gain, to legis- 
late away some portion of that country’s interests ; that 
is, to sell his country piecemeal ; that is, in the language 
of merchants, to barter it at retail, instead of vending it 
at wholesale for one gross sum in cash. They drew a dis- 
tinction ; the retail business was not treason, the wholesale 
would be ; a discrimination which only subtle minds could 
make. They were, in fact, either with or without a secret 
and express understanding, allies. By their opposing 
courses, and their misrepresentations and exaggerations of 
differences which really existed, they had been able to 
raise that most important, to a politician, of all phantoms, 
namely, an issue ; to excite party spirit to the utmost, and 
to appear always in the van, and, consequently, as leaders 
in the current of popular feeling on their respective sides 
of the ‘‘issue.” Each hoped for personal advantage 
should these currents meet in a hostile shock ; that states- 
men would be swept from their posts, and that themselves, 
by the help only of a little steering, should be drifted into 
the places thus made empty during a time of general tur- 
moil and confusion, when passions, more than reason, gov- 
ern the actions of men, and he who can best minister to the 


28 o 


no tv WILL IT END? 


passions is likely to be most popular; that is, to float. 
And therefore each had taken no small part in bringing 
on the war, and each had, as he expected, reaped much 
profit from it, while diligently keeping out of harm^s 
way. 

As has been said, the Honorable Schisterlow Brass- 
tinkle, like the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong, was 
very much dissatisfied with the surrender. But he gave 
a diflerent reason for his dissatisfaction. He considered 
the terms of capitulation by far too lenient and honorable 
to the vanquished. And he did not hesitate to tell Gen- 
eral Sterling so,^ with much show of excited feeling. 

‘‘By G — d, sir,’’ said he, “I would have fought them 
till I had neither a man nor a musket left, before I would 
have granted them such terms. Now you have only 
wounded, you have not crippled them. You should not 
only conquer, but you should subvert these people. They 
must be reduced to such a state that they can never again 
rise to the position which they formerly occupied, and be 
strong enough to threaten once more the peace of the 
country, nor a second time hold in politics the balance 
of power, and, with the aid of our opponents, be able to 
cast us from our places.” 

“That is,” said General Sterling, “for the future, you 
would have prosperity rendered impossible in the territory 
which they inhabit.” 

Whether the Honorable gentleman sincerely advised 
this policy or not, he felt perfectly safe in urging it, since 
he foresaw that it would be opposed, and that an “issue” 
would thus be raised. But for this, he might have mod- 
erated his exactions. 

“Why, sir,” said he, “these people must be lopped, 
uprooted, and others planted in their stead. And, where 
they cannot be eradicated, they must be bound with withes, 


SOUNDING BRASS. 


281 


till they be overshadowed, obscured, stunted, and made 
harmless by another growth. ’ ' And many other like things 
he said. 

To all this General Sterling replied that, as he under- 
stood it, the object for which he and his men had been 
fighting was gained ; that they had won even more than 
the Honorable gentleman had demanded in the early stages 
of the war. 

^^That is all very true,” returned the Honorable 
Schisterlow, ‘^but it was policy not to ask any more at 
that time. It was then necessary to make but moderate 
demands, in order to enlist the support of the calmer and 
more conscientious portion of the people ; for, besides the 
importance of their political influence, such men are always 
the best volunteer soldiers. It is policy, now that the 
armies are organized and disciplined ; now that the volun- 
teers are bound for their term of service, and, also, to obey 
orders ; now that their term of enlistment is so long that 
all which is desirable may be accomplished without calling 
for fresh volunteers ; now that these people are scotched, 
— it is policy, I say, to draw their fangs.” 

^^But,” remonstrated General Sterling, ^Gt appears to 
me that such a course would hardly be consistent with the 
professions and purposes of the party which we serve, as 
announced at, and shortly after, the beginning of the 
war.” 

My dear sir,” retorted the Honorable Mr. Brasstinkle, 

you must remember that politic and consistent are, half 
the time at least, antagonistic terms. It is always con- 
sistent to be politic, but not always politic to be con- 
sistent.” 

Whether this dogmatic sentence expressed a truth or not, 
made no difference to the Honorable Schisterlow. It 
sounded well, and he particularly liked sounding phrases. 

24* 


282 


irOJV WILL IT END? 


Whatever your views may be, sir,’* replied General 
Sterling, ‘^we, as soldiers, see no reason for a continuance 
of this war. We see many reasons for its termination. 
We feel that men enough have been killed, men enough 
crippled for life, widows and orphans enough made, misery 
enough caused, property enough destroyed, hopes enough 
blighted, happiness enough blasted, hatred enough ex- 
cited, evil passions enough let loose, vices enough germi- 
nated. We have done what we undertook to do when 
we drew our swords in this quarrel, and we propose to 
sheathe them. We were ready to strike with a will, so 
long as a weapon was raised against us ; for we believed 
it necessary and right to do so. We are glad to hold our 
hands, now that our antagonists have grounded their arms. 
We believe this to be right also. If you think the contest 
should go on, you can summon a champion from the other 
side, — a fierce non-combatant like yourself, — and fight it 
out with him. Nobody shall object, and I will see that 
the lists are properly guarded, so that you shall not be 
checked by any interference. * * 

To make a suggestion like that is mere trifling, sir,” 
said the Honorable Mr. Brasstinkle, ^‘entirely unworthy 
of the time and place;” and he went on to urge again 
the necessity of placing the conqueror’s foot on the neck 
of the conquered, and of making the vanquished pass 
beneath the yoke. 

^^If this is to be done, and the territory of these 
people ravaged, it must be done by the camp-followers,” 
said General Sterling, placing a particular and significant 
emphasis on the word ^Tollowers.” Those who have 
fought will not do it.” 

understand your innuendo, sir,” retorted the Hon- 
orable Mr. Brasstinkle. ‘^It may have more meaning 
than you intend. You know that 


SOUNDING BRASS. 


283 


‘ Beneath the rule of men entirely great 
The pen is mightier than the sword.’ ” 

^^And I know, also,^’ replied General Sterling, that 

In the hands of men entirely small 
The pen is mightier than the sword : 

States may be ruined by it.” 

And he continued: will not deny your power, sir. 

You can foment and prolong a quarrel as well as any man 
of whom I ever heard. But if you wish this contest to 
be continued, you must carry it on yourself. And I have 
little doubt that you will find means to do so. But I cer- 
tainly shall not expect the pleasure of mourning the loss 
of your valuable life, or of one drop of your blood, in 
the conflict.*^ 

What retort the Honorable Schisterlow Brasstinkle 
made, Allerton did not hear; for, disgusted with that 
gentleman, and weary of the whole discussion, he left the 
company and wandered away from the fort, to indulge in 
his own reflections, give way to the sadness which he 
could not resist, and meditate upon his future course. 
Strolling without purpose, except to find solitude, he drew 
near to a brook which ran by the fortifications and sup- 
plied water to the garrison. Soothed by its soft murmurs, 
he walked slowly along the bank, side by side with its 
winding current. He noticed that, at some distance far- 
ther down its course, it went into a grove, under over- 
hanging boughs, making an exquisite picture of sweet 
seclusion. The ground, at this place, rose gently from 
either side, in such a manner that the streamlet ran 
through a little valley, just beyond the outskirts of the 
village. So inviting was the appearance of leafy solitude 
and shade by the brook-side, under the trees, that he 
continued his steps that way, and, entering the grove. 


284 


JIOH^ WILL IT END? 


seated himself opposite a small rapid in the stream, where 
it broke over or against the brown stones, from whose 
sides and tops the dark-green watery vegetation floated 
and waved in the little curling water-courses which the 
current made, as it was divided by the obstructing rocks. 
The bank whereon he sat was mossy, and he leaned against 
the trunk of an aged oak, whose knotted gray roots had 
left the shore, and, with many contortions, ran along the 
bed of the rivulet, as if they envied and would imitate 
the graceful movements of the fishes. Here he gave him- 
self up rather to reverie than to reflection. The noise of 
the brook calmed the painful tumult of his feelings, while 
it softened all harsher sounds, or kept them entirely from 
his hearing. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

ALWAYS. 

To Marion’s great delight, her father emphatically de- 
clared that Colonel Allerton and his friend had been 
cleared from all suspicion even of dishonorable conduct, 
while planning and attempting their escape, by what had 
been proven against the Honorable Mr. Clappergong. 

While they were yet talking of the strange facts re- 
cently brought to light, which showed that Honorable 
gentleman’s real character, a note was sent in to General 
Devray. He opened it, looked at the signature, uttered 
an exclamation of surprise and pleasure, glanced at what 
was written, and, saying that he would shortly return, 
went out. 

Left alone, Marion was free to think of Allerton without 


ALWAYS. 


285 

interruption or distraction, and to question herself as to 
how he would act, now that he was at liberty. Did he 
know what she had done for him ? And what effect would 
the knowledge of her zeal for his rescue produce ? Would 
he not see that she loved him still ? Must he not feel that 
she had said those detestable words to him in the heat of 
sudden anger, and that she did not mean them, — would 
indeed most gladly recall and make him forget them? 
But, if so, why did he not come to her ? How could he 
allow a moment to pass after he was set free before he 
pressed her to his heart? Why did he not fly to her 
arms as she would to his, if she could, — if a maiden 
might do so ? 

Would he come at all ? Had she not quenched his love? 
What was he doing? Durst she go to him and acknowl- 
edge her fault and her unchangeable affection? Would he 
receive her? Would he not despise her for so doing? 
Might a woman do such a thing ? 

Oh, if he would only come to her ! Will he never 
come? Shall she never see him again, never have an 
opportunity tg tell him how sorry she feels, — to let him see 
how infinitely dearer than ever he is to her ? 

As these and similar thoughts ran through her mind, 
she stood at the window, and vainly strained her eyes in 
the direction from which, if at all, Allerton must come. 
The minutes wore away, each an hour in seeming dura- 
tion, but he came not. 

Unable longer to abide in the house waiting for his 
coming, she walked forth, hoping that she might perchance 
meet him, or hear news of him. Yet she could not trust her- 
self to ask any of the persons whom she saw if they had 
seen Colonel Allerton. Nor did she perceive any sign 
of his drawing near. She did not go to the fort. She 
was unable to do that ; it would be too bold, too un- 


286 


ffOlV WILL IT END? 


maidenly. She had lost his love, and she could not bear 
to risk the loss of his respect also. 

Oh, if she might only meet him, as though by chance ! 
But perhaps he has already left the village, and hurried 
away to those friends who should be so happy to see 
him after his many perils. Yet could he go away, never 
to see her again, without one word of farewell ? Even 
she should not blame him for doing so. And yet, if he 
really loved her, was it possible for him to depart, and 
be separated from her forever, never, never to see her 
any more, without saying good-by and giving her a last 
embrace ? 

Now that, to her mind, it began to seem certain, even 
if he still remained in the neighborhood, that he did not 
wish a renewal of his acquaintance with her, she could not 
restrain her tears. 

She returned towards her humble friend’s house, which 
stood on the outskirts of the village, as has been said. 
But, instead of entering it, she continued her way a few 
steps down the narrow path to the grove, which was close 
at hand. This grove, and the brook-side, had been 
her favorite resorts, when in the village. She wanted 
to go there again, and, throwing herself down by the 
murmuring waters, weep her heart away. There she could 
give free course to her grief, and fear no intrusion or ob- 
servation. 

Now, it happened that Marion approached the brook a 
short way only from where Allerton was seated. He did 
not hear her, because of the noise made by the water in 
the little rapid ; and she did not see him, partly because 
he was half hidden by the aged oak, and partly because 
she was half blinded by her tears, and by the handker- 
chief with which she absorbed their crystal flow. She 
threw herself along upon the bank, and cried as if her 


ALWAYS. 


287 


heart would break. In a little while, however, the vio- 
lence of her emotions was exhausted, and only convulsive 
sobs, from time to time, and the tears, which yet con- 
tinued to run, told of her sufferings. Near her the water 
was still, and the noise of the brook, breaking over the 
stones above, did not prevent her hearing distinctly any 
other sound. 

As her grief became tranquil and silent, she was startled 
by a long-drawn sigh, so deep that it seemed almost a 
groan. Raising her head, and glancing fearfully around, 
she was terrified to see the body of a man but a short dis- 
tance from her, half stretched, half sitting, upon the bank. 
His head was thrown back and concealed behind the tree 
against which he leaned. She could not restrain an ex- 
clamation of alarm, and, springing up, was on the point 
of making a headlong flight, when the man, who had 
evidently been roused by the cry which she uttered, 
quickly arose, and, taking one step towards her, stood 
clearly revealed. It was Allerton. 

‘‘Marion!” he exclaimed, in a tone of surprise, as if 
he were questioning the evidence of his own senses. He 
stood still, looking mournfully at her. She had impul- 
sively started towards him the moment he was recognized. 
But, seeing that he did not approach her, she suddenly 
stopped, looking at him for an instant, while her very 
soul appeared to be flowing out to him through her large 
dark eyes, and then cast down her lids, veiling with their 
long lashes the truthful light which glowed in their depths 
and suffused her beaming orbs. Yet she had gazed long 
enough to note how sad and pale he looked. For a moment 
she seemed irresolute. Then, going to him with her hand 
extended and her eyes newly filled with tears, she said, in 
a trembling voice, — 

“Colonel Allerton, I want — I want — to apologize — for 


288 


JIOJV WILL IT END? 


the injustice which I did you. I wish to recall the words 
which escaped me in anger. I did not mean them. I 
did not think — I was very wrong — I 

Here her voice almost broke down, and she stopped, 
fearing to trust it further. 

Allerton had taken the hand which she offered, and 
continued to hold it, without pressing it, while his eyes 
were fixed upon her, as if he would read her heart. The 
touching expression of sadness and suffering remained 
unchanged on his pale face. 

After a moment^s silence he spoke. 

^‘1 am very sorry, said he, in tones which betrayed, 
by their very evenness, the force exercised to make 
them apparently calm, — am very sorry that Miss De- 
vray should feel it necessary to tender any apology to me. 
There is no cause. The kindness which she has shown to 
a stranger, and the happiness which I owe to her, bind me 
forever her debtor; even had she not so much increased 
the obligation by her heroic efforts in behalf of my friend 
and myself 

Marion interrupted him. When he first began to speak, 
she had withdrawn her hand, which he did not try to 
retain, and stood, with downcast eyes and heaving bosom, 
listening to his cold and distant language. But, suddenly 
lifting her head, and looking him earnestly in the face, 
she cried, — 

‘^Oh, Allerton! what do you mean? Will you not 
understand me? Will you not forgive me?’* 

Her voice thrilled him. It was that of her heart speak- 
ing without disguise; and the expression of her eyes, 
whose soft light seemed to envelop and penetrate him, 
melted his soul; for it was as if her soul did then touch 
his own, as she stood with her head and shoulders a little 
thrown back to look up at him, the tumultuous agitations 


AJV INVITATION. 289 

of her breast only half concealed by the light drapery 
which she wore. 

Oh, Marion he exclaimed, drawing her, unresisting, 
to his heart, ‘‘may I understand you as I will? — may I, 
my darling, my love, my angel?’* 

“Yes, yes,” she murmured, as her head sank on his 
shoulder ; and she yielded her elegant form to his em- 
brace with that graceful suppleness which says so elo- 
quently and touchingly, “ Do with me as seemeth good in 
thy sight,” expressing all of love and trust. 

“And you are mine still?” he whispered, between the 
thousand kisses with which he covered her lips, her 
cheeks, her eyes, and her brow ; and his ear caught from 
her breath the response as if her heart in uttering it would 
dispense with the common mechanism by which words, 
mere words, are made : 

“Yes, darling.” 

‘ ‘ Always ?’ ’ asked he. 

“Always,” she replied. 


CHAPTER XLIIL 

AN INVITATION. 

“Let us go to my father,” said Marion, at length; 
“ he knows not where I am, and will be anxious about 
me. Besides, I want to present you to him.” 

And with the serenity of complete happiness, their 
beauty heightened by the soft glow of unclouded love, 
they walked slowly to the house where Marion lodged. 

The trees were casting very long shadows when the 
lovers came out of the grove, and a great glory illumined 
all tl)e west. 


25 


290 


HOPV WILL IT END? 


As they entered the room where Marion expected to 
meet her father, they were surprised to see not only Gen- 
eral Devray, but Sister Mary, Sister Marguerite, Bulldon, 
Trangolar, and General Sterling. The bright color in 
the sweet girl’s face grew still brighter and deeper as she 
approached her father and gracefully presented Colonel 
Allerton. The general shook him warmly by the hand. 

I am very glad to meet you, sir,” said he. ‘‘I have 
heard much of you ; and General Sterling has told me, 
with other things not less calculated to excite my respect 
and esteem, that you are the son of one of my first and 
best friends. What I know of you already makes me 
certain that you are worthy of such a father ; no small 
praise, I assure you, sir.” 

^^It has always been my desire to honor my father by 
aiming to be like him,” replied Allerton, modestly. 

Taking Marion by the hand, the general led her to 
Sister Mary, saying, — 

^^My child, I wish you to be acquainted with your 
aunt, Lady X., my sister Gertrude, of whom you have 
been kept in ignorance through my fault. Judging by 
appearances alone, I have done this dear sister a great, 
cruel, and long-continued wrong. She will some time tell 
you the reasons, such as they were, which induced me to 
pursue a course so unworthy, for she can and will find 
better excuses for me than I can for myself. But I am 
happy in knowing that I was wrong; happier still that 
she forgives me and that we are again united. She sent 
the note which called me away from you so hastily, ask- 
ing that I would come to her. It was the first intimation 
I received that she was here; otherwise I should have 
been beforehand with her in seeking an interview. You 
cannot love her too much, my darling. ’ ’ 

Marion looked at her aunt with an expression of pleased 


A A’' INVITATION. 


29IV 

surprise on her eloquent features ; then, with the impul- 
siveness of her nature, she threw her arms around Sister 
Mary^s neck and kissed her warmly. It was an inex- 
pressible relief for her to kiss somebody, she was so 
happy. Sister Mary returned the embrace tenderly, while 
tears sprang to her soft eyes. 

Turning to Bulldon, who stood near. Sister Mary in- 
troduced him to her niece as Lord X., her son, and 
Marion^ s cousin. With a mischievous smile on his hand- 
some face, the presuming young man imprinted a hearty 
kiss on his beautiful relative’s scarlet cheqk. 

‘‘I have felt, ever since I knew you, that we ought to 
be cousins,” said he. It is a feeling which I am apt to 
have whenever I see a particularly splendid woman ; but 
never so strong as in this instance;” and the mischievous 
smile grew brighter as he said this. ‘‘I shall be a firm 
believer in presentiments and intuitions hereafter.” 

You are very good, and I shall like you exceedingly, 
as a real cousin, I have no doubt,” replied Marion, with 
vivacity, placing a significant emphasis on the word 
^‘real.” And she added, ‘^Provided, however, that you 
get into no more scrapes.” 

Now it is my turn,” said Bulldon ; and he led Marion 
to Sister Marguerite, who had retired a little behind Lady 
X. ^^I want you to know this lady. Miss Marguerite 
Stanley, late Sister Marguerite, now my betrothed wife.” 
And, while the young women were exchanging courtesies 
and congratulations, he brought up Allerton, who was 
presented by him to Lady X. and Miss Stanley. 

‘‘And this gentleman,” said Bulldon, turning to Tran- 
golar, “with whom you are already acquainted, is Miss 
Stanley’s half-brother, and the horrible fellow of whom I 
was so jealous.” 

While passing a few words with Trangolar, Allerton 


292 


no IV WILL IT END? 


noticed that Marion’s father was standing a little apart, 
and alone. Excusing himself, he went directly to Gen- 
eral Devray, and, looking him respectfully and frankly in 
the face, he said, — 

I I have a confession to make to you, sir.” 

‘‘I am surprised to hear it,” replied the general, ^^for 
confession implies a fault, or the consciousness of an 
injury done.” 

Or an unintentional error,” rejoined Allerton. What 
I have to say relates to the circumstances in which I first 
became acquainted with Miss Devray, and how I took 
what might justly enough be called an ungenerous, pos- 
sibly a dishonorable, advantage of the frank hospitality 
received at your house; for, during the time that I was 
entertained and most kindly cherished there, I won, as I 
am very happy to believe, your daughter’s affections.” 

‘‘1 trust you do not consider that a crime?” said the 
general. 

^^Not if you will overlook it,” returned Allerton. 

In you with pleasure ; in another it might be other- 
wise; since I love myself in my child, and am selfish for 
her. Do you love Marion?” 

General Devray spoke in the straightforward manner 
said to be characteristic of soldiers. 

‘‘With all my heart,” replied Allerton, earnestly, “and 
would make her my wife, if I might with your consent. ’ ’ 

“Then take her, sir, and God bless you both!” re- 
turned the general, taking Allerton ’s hand and pressing 
it warmly. 

Marion, at a little distance, had been no indifferent 
spectator of this interview, and well divined its import, 
as her lover could see when, at its conclusion, his eyes 
sought her own. 

General Sterling had become acquainted with all the 


A FEAST. 


293 


persons present, and soon knew the relation which they 
held to one another. He now proposed to make a little 
feast in the evening, and invited them all to come. He 
said it would be a fit way of closing such an eventful day, 
and of celebrating the happy reunion of so many friends. 
He would have a tent prepared for the occasion. And 
they all promised to be there. 

Then the lovers strolled out to enjoy a walk in the twi- 
light ; Trangolar went about his business, if he had any ; 
General Sterling went to prepare for the feast , an(f Gen- 
eral Devray and Lady X. remained to talk. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A FEAST. 

With excellent taste. General Sterling had chosen the 
grove, where Marion and Allerton became reconciled, as 
the scene of the feast. 

Had some gossiping old bird, too faded and shrunk to 
be wooed and kissed any more, been looking and listen- 
ing in the tree-tops, uneasily drooping her ragged wings 
and turning her shriveled beak from one side to the other, 
while the young man and his sweetheart were together by 
the brook-side ? And had she told the general all about 
the lovers* meeting, and how she had been shocked at 
what they did in the obscurity of the grove and the twi- 
light, and especially at Marion’s laying her head on 
Allerton* s bosom and letting him fondle and caress her 
at will? Or had this spot been selected only for its ap- 
propriateness and beauty ? 

25* 


294 


HOW WILL IT END? 


The general caused a shelter of canvas to be erected 
over the space particularly marked out for the festival. 

As darkness drew on, a thousand soft lights, of every 
pleasing tint, began to appear in the trees, and at a little 
distance from either end of the table bent an arch, in 
which the colored lanterns were so arranged as to repre- 
sent the hues of a rainbow ; making, in fact, a striking 
imitation of that cheering sign in the heavens ; a bow of 
hope and a signal of peace over the persons assembled 
within its embracing sweep. Far above, in the clear blue 
vault, a million stars, white as the robes of angels, looked 
down, and seemed to peep smilingly in, through the 
foliage, upon the happy company. Even the Man in the 
Moon wore an unusually becoming smile. 

A fine military band made exquisite music ; and, when 
it was not playing, the sweet babble of the brook, and 
the soft murmur of the leaves, could be heard. 

The guests were not many. General Sterling occupied 
one end of the table, and General Devray the other. 
Marion sat at General Sterling’s right hand, and Mar- 
guerite at the right hand of General Devray. Allerton 
and Bulldon were placed next to their respective sweet- 
hearts. Lady X. was seated at General Sterling’s left, 
and Mrs. Clappergong at the left of General Devray. 
For both the Honorable Mr. Clappergong, with his wife, 
and the Honorable Mr. Brasstinkle were there. The two 
Honorable gentlemen sat opposite to each other, at the 
middle of the table. 

General Sterling, with the generosity of a soldier and a 
brave man, extended invitations to the two Honorable 
gentlemen, feeling that at such a time all diifej^nces 
should be forgotten. And the Honorable gentlemen were 
always ready to eat and drink at any table which was well 
furnished. 


A FEAST, 


295 


Allerton and Bulldon had both particularly asked that 
Mrs. Clappergong should be invited. The Honorable 
Mr. Brasstinkle alone objected to the presence of the 
Honorable Mr. Clappergong at the feast ; and he stated 
some of the reasons for his opposition, very dictatorially, 
to General Sterling. 

‘‘Why, sir,’’ said he, “that man should now be the 
occupant of a felon’s cell, loaded with irons, and only 
permitted to come out when he is led to the gallows. ’ ’ 

Perhaps the Honorable Mr. Brasstinkle was right ; he 
knew more of the Honorable Pestyfog than did the 
general. But that officer made it clearly understood that 
he could and should arrange his own table, and choose 
his own guests, without deference to political dictation. 

The fact was, that the Honorable Schisterlow Brass- 
tinkle had his own personal reasons for wishing to have 
the Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong put where he should 
be forever incapable of demanding an account, or a share 
in political profits, and where it should be impossible 
for him to disclose certain transactions in which, as 
politicians, they had been engaged. 

Trangolar was at the table, and some of the staff officers 
of both generals. Cass’s shining and happy face was 
conspicuous among the attendants who served the feast. 

For some time the conversation was quietly carried on 
between neighbors around the board. At first the two 
Honorable gentlemen did not say much. The viands 
were good, and they were both hungry and thirsty. Such 
politicians are apt to be so. And, in the country where 
these things took place, they had all the qualities of their 
class in fullest development. 

Toasts to the health and happiness of the lovers had 
been duly proposed and honored. 

“May their union never be broken!” said General 


296 


JIOU^ WILL IT END? 


Devray, ^^but grow closer and closer, and be symbolical 
of that henceforth to exist between the parties to this 
dreadful conflict, at length happily ended. Let us hope 
that now all misunderstandings are removed, all miscon- 
ceptions corrected, our acquaintance with each other made 
more perfect, and our erroneous judgments reversed.’^ 

beg leave to protest,*^ said the Honorable Mr. 
Clappergong, somewhat excitedly, ^^that there have been 
no misconceptions, no misunderstandings, and no mis- 
takes made upon our side, except by the military. It is 
true that the chances of war have turned against us this 
time, and we are forced, for the present, to submit. But 
the questions at issue have not been settled ; our cause is 
not lost. It cannot die, and shall yet be vindicated.^* 

It was furthest from General Devray *s intention, or 
thoughts, to suggest, even, a political topic. But he had 
forgotten that a politician is nothing if not political. 

The moment the Honorable Mr. Clappergong had fin- 
ished his protest, the Honorable Mr. Brasst inkle retorted. 

It is true,** said he, ‘‘that the questions at issue are not 
settled, and will not be till we have guarantees for the 
future, as well as submission for the present. It shall be 
our aim not to relax our advantage till there shall be no 
power left with our opponents ever to renew this contest. 
We have full confidence in our ingenuity to invent the 
ways and means for completing this necessary supplement 
to our victory. * * 

“I deprecate these sentiments,** said General Sterling. 
“Let there be no oppression, no vindictiveness, nor any 
triumph in which both parties may not join. Let there 
be a thanksgiving and a jubilee because this most distress- 
ing war is over, and peace come again to us all. I am 
no farmer,** he added, “but I want to turn my weapons 
into plowshares and pruning-hooks, and do something 


A FEAST. 


297 


to eradicate the weeds which have sprung up all over our 
goodly land while we have been engaged in the work of 
destruction/^ 

‘‘And let this be a feud of the fathers only/^ said 
General Devray, “which they have ended by wager of 
battle. Let it not descend to their children. We, on our 
side, have done our best, but the decision is against us. Let 
us accept it as final, like good and true men, who have 
faith in the tribunal to which they appealed. Let us not, 
like dishonest or mean-spirited gamesters, refuse to pay 
the stakes, or try to wriggle out of the position in which 
we placed ourselves, now that we have lost.’^ 

“I propose the health of Lady X.,” said General 
Sterling, “the noble Sister of Charity, whose presence 
here is most appropriate; for where, better than here, 
could charity be employed?” 

This sentiment was responded to heartily by all present, 
save the two Honorable gentlemen, who affected not to 
hear it. Their respective appetites were now temporarily 
satisfied, and, after the exchange of a significant look, one 
of them rose and left the table. The other followed him 
in a few minutes. 

Their going excited no regret, and no remark or appre- 
hension, for some time, and the current of talk and of good 
feeling flowed on undisturbed. 

At length, however, Mrs. Clappergong^s nervous rest- 
lessness and anxiety drew General Devray’s notice, and, 
on questioning her, he learned that she was greatly alarmed 
by the prolonged absence of her husband. Although, 
with the exception of the fond wife, no one desired to 
hasten the return of the two Honorable gentlemen, yet, 
out of -respect for her solicitude, messengers were dis- 
patched to look after them. For a time the search was 
fruitless ; but by-and-by Cass, who was one of those sent. 


IfOW WILL IT END? 


29.8 

saw a dim light in an obscure part of the grove. Ap- 
proaching, he discovered that it came from a lantern, 
which was placed upon the ground, and, near by, he saw 
the bodies of the Honorable gentlemen, both dead. His 
outcries brought other seekers to the spot, and they per- 
ceived that the Honorable gentlemen had plainly fallen in 
a hostile contest with each other. Each bore tooth-marks 
inflicted by his antagonist, and the Honorable Schisterlow 
Brasstinkle’s left hand still held the throat of his oppo- 
nent in a death-grip,^ while his right hand yet grasped 
a heavy steel pen, which he was in the habit of carryr 
ing, now blunted and broken. In the right hand of the 
Honorable Pestyfog Clappergong a murderous knife was 
clutched. 

Only afterwards did it come out that they had quarreled 
about the division of profits made through the war, much 
the larger part by the Honorable Schisterlow Brasstinkle, 
since he had been on the winning side, but who was un- 
willing to give up so great a share as the other demanded ; 
that, in the heat of sudden anger, the Honorable Schister- 
low Brasstinkle had assaulted the Honorable Pestyfog 
Glappdrgong with the pen, which he was using to compute 
the accounts in question, and arrange, after his own man- 
ner, the division of the spoils ; that the Honorable Pesty- 
fog Clappergong had thereupon drawn his knife, and in 
this way their accounts were finally settled. 

Then it was known that they had, in a way, been 
leagued together. 

The announcement of their death, and the manner of 
it, caused more smiles than tears. Only Mrs. Clapper- 
gong was plunged in deep grief, for she alone, as is usually 
the case with wives, was ignorant of her husband ^s real 
character. 

The feast had already come to an end, and the guests 


9 


299 


had separated. But in the camp, groups of soldiers, who 
had so recently been engaged, man against man, in deadly 
conflict, prolonged far into the night their friendly inter- 
change of courtesies and kindnesses, and emulated one 
another in praising the gallantry of their late antagonists 
and in hurrahing for the restoration of peace and union. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

? 

The preparations for a double wedding were speedily 
made, and, after their marriage, Bulldon took his lovely 
and gentle wife over the sea, whither he went to assume 
his title and possession of his estates. Allerton, with 
Marion, the most beautiful bride that had ever yet crossed 
those waters traversed by so many beautiful women, went 
with Lord X. and Marguerite on their bridal tour. And 
the faithful Cass accompanied them. 

On both sides of those waters there were yet to be many 
happy meetings of the friends now temporarily separated. 
And by-and-by to those reunions bright young cousin 
cherubs were to come, and call General Devray grandpa, 
and Sister Mary grandma. 

For General Devray had said to Sister Mary, ‘‘My 
wife has been long dead ; Miss Mabie has deserted me ; 
Marion has gone from me to fulfill the happier duties of 
wife and mother, and I am left alone. Come and live 
with me. Can you find better exercise for your charity, 
dear sister, than as my companion, giving me such oppor- 
tunity as you may to repair the wrongs which I have 
done you?*^ 


300 


J/OIV WILL IT END? 


And she dwelt with him. 

Trangolar, when not visiting his sister, or some other 
of his friends, and playing with their children, was wiping 
his spectacles and trying to get a further insight into the 
beauties of mathematics ; making angles of every degree ; 
and drawing all kinds of Gons, with strange given-names, 
of which Polly was the only one that sounded Christian- 
like. 

Mrs. Clappergong mourned for her lost love, and felt 
that the world was dark, because a great light had been 
put out. 

General Sterling lived an honest man, and did his duty. 

As news that the war was over circulated with lightning 
speed to the remotest parts of the country which had been 
the scene of all its horrors, and of the events narrated in 
these pages, the widows and orphans, the bereaved old 
men, and the betrothed maidens whose promised bride- 
grooms had been left unburied in the lonely -places where 
they fell, or hidden from the sight of men in the nameless 
graves, far away from them in their desolated homes, 
humbly and fervently thanked God for the peace which 
had come again, and shed fresh tears because their lost 
ones were not living to share in the general joy. 

In their club-rooms the politicians, partisans and 
followers of the Honorable Mr. Brasstinkle and of the 
Honorable Mr. Clappergong, respectively, boasted for 
the victory, and cunningly invented ways to make their 
triumph lasting, and humiliating to the conquered ; to 
create and nourish irritating issues, and retain the power 
which they had gotten during the confusion and terror 
caused by the clangor of arms, while the laws were 
silent ; or, upon the other side, censured the defeat which 
their party had sustained, and the honorable men, in 
spite of whose self-sacrificing and bravest efforts it had 


? 


301 


been suffered; and prepared methods to avoid its conse- 
quences, disregard the decision of battle which they had 
invoked, and renew the contest in such manner as might 
yet be possible with them. Meanwhile, upon both sides, 
they industriously wrought schemes to plunder the people, 
peaceably ; and only sought to excite a warlike spirit that 
their booty might be greater. 

The statesmen, who were few, — for statesmen, like 
poets, are born, not made, — a large part of whom, also, 
in trying to withstand the onrush of popular passions, and 
prevent the threatened meeting of the hostile currents, 
before the war began, had been overwhelmed, and left 
among the drift and pieces of wreck made by breaking up 
the established order of things, in the eddies of the flood, 
powerless to do more than mournfully witness the destruc- 
tion, until the torrents should abate, from each side now 
strove to join hands, and devise modes to relieve the suf- 
fering and restore the waste places caused by the war. 

Yet a great portion of the people were so inconsiderate 
and selfish, so neglectful of their public duties, and so 
easily worked upon and deceived by the intrigues of de- 
signing men, and, when thus worked upon, so ready to 
yield reason to the guidance of passion, that the more 
thoughtful and wiser part could not free themselves from 
apprehension and anxiety, but frequently asked one 
another, 


‘‘HOW WILL IT END?” 


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.X 


HERODIAS, ANTONIUS, 

AND 

SALOME. 

DRAMATIC POEMS 

BY J. C. HEYWOOD, 

AUTHOR OF “HOW WILL IT END?” ETC. ETC. 

Separately, these three poems have each a completed 
action and interest. Together, they contain the connected 
story, as conceived by their author, of Salome, the 
Daughter of Herodias. Considered as one work, they 
are the three acts of her life-drama ; considered as three 
works, they are distinct dramas. 

TESTIMONY OF THE CRITICS. 

HERODIAS. 

“ We have here a really original drama, brimful of heroic poetry, 
and altogether as much above the dead level of the age as an abo- 
riginal growth of the wilderness is above the wild flowers, violets, and 
snowdrops that encumber their roots.” — N. K Evening Post, 

“ Everywhere there is originality, and everywhere strength. It is 
a work full of the freshness, the enthusiasm, the dreams, and the 
earnestness of youth.” — N. A. Review, 

“It is a boldly conceived, genially executed, oftentimes a truly 
superb poem. ... In the concluding scenes we seem to feel the 
inspiration of Goethe and of AEschylus,'^ — Continental Monthly, 


“ The native vigor of the thoughts, this Greek dramatic form, this 
Elizabethan tone of expression, and the Judaeo-Roman persons of the 
drama, furnish a compound of very striking elements, and with far 
more both of power and finish than is usual among the poems of the 
day.” — N, Y. Independent, 

“ It is a rare merit that a poem is Shakspearean in the sense in which 
this is so. . . . The portraiture of Herodias is a masterly crea- 

tion, and shows no ordinary degree of art on the part of the artist. 
. . . It may be predicted with confidence that the author who 

gives such proof of genius will not long remain unknown to the 
public.” — New York Leader, 

“ Throughout, the work is marked with passages of rare beauty, 
and, what is remarkable, is marred by no extravagances of sentiment 
or expression. We regard it as an extraordinary production, giving 
rich promise of what may follow.” — New Bedford Mercury. 

“This is a dramatic poem, whose putative author is a distinguished 
lawyer of this city. . . . The drama abounds in passages which 

manifest the possession of rare epic power, and the loftiest range of 
poetic imagery.” — N. Y, Express. 

“It must be judged as a poem. And, taking it in this light, the 
verdict which has already stamped it as grand will be very nearly 
confessed by all careful readers. It is cast with a touch of the old 
Greek grandeur and breadth. . . . As it is original in concep- 

tion, so there is no servile copying in the details. The theme is not 
one which admits of mediocre treatment ; there must be success or 
failure; and the poem is not a failure.” — North American and U. S, 
Gazette. 

“ Herodias has resolved to obtain her revenge through Salome, and 
the development of the scene in which she plays upon the poor girl’s 
mind to gain her end . . . shows undoubted dramatic genius. 

, . , Mr. Heywood’s diction is unusually fresh, clear, and power- 

ful.” — N, Y. Leader — notice of the second edition. 

“ In this remarkable poem, the author has put into use the grandest 
machinery of the heavens, and has appropriated among his dramatis 
personce the most sacred beings in our religious faith. Yet he has not 
failed. His poem bears evidence of the highest poetic ability.” — 
N. Y. Evening Post. 


2 


Letter from the Hon. Edward Everett. 

“ As a story, the dramatic interest is drawn out with ingenuity, 
from the few incidents contained in the sacred narrative, and is sus- 
tained with skill to the end. The poetical execution is of a high * 
order, and indeed indicates uncommon poetical talent, such as, if you 
had decided to make poetry the business of your life, instead of the 
far different study of the law, would have conducted you to no humble 
place on the sides of Parnassus. 

“ I remain, as ever, your sincere friend, 

“ Edward Everett.” 

ANTONIES. 

“Take the following passage as a fair sample of the best and 
largest portions : . . . a passage that might well be mistaken for a 
dropped jewel of Shakspeare by even the wariest of judges. . . . 

We do not know of a grander manifestation of inherent, uncontrol- 
lable power than maybe found in the following lines . . . — The 
N, Y. World. 

“ * Antonius ' is a dramatic poem by the author of ‘ Herodias,’ a 
work which has made a deep impression on appreciative readers by its 
originality and power. The plot is founded on the Druidical rites in 
ancient Britain, and is carried out with great boldness of conception 
and vigor of execution. . . . The author blends a singular com- 

mand of expressive poetic language, with a creative imagination, and 
has managed his historical materials with admirable effect.” — The 
N, Y Tribune, 

“The reputation established by the author’s earlier literary venture 
is not dimmed by the production of his second volume.” — N. Y. 
Evening Post, 

“ Many passages of rare beauty occur throughout these works, and 
the productions, as a whole, entitle their author to a position in the 
foremost rank of English poets.” — Philadelphia Inquirer, 

“ We believe the author to be endued with no small share of the 
true poetic spirit, which induces us to predict for him the ‘ os magna 
sonaturum.^ ” — Round Table. 

“The author, J. C. Hey wood, is a member of the New York bar, 
and has already displayed remarkable talent in ‘ Herodias,’ a poem 
of great vigor and originality.” . . . 

26* 


3 


“ The poem abounds with passages of great beauty and force, and 
determines the author as one of the first dramatic writers of the day. 
The scene in which Kaliphilus confesses to Salome at once his love 
,and his terrible doom is a magnificent effort of poetic genius.” — 
Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, 

“ Each of the poems exhibits a high degree of ability, both of con- 
ception and execution. . , . The vigor, rhetoric, and elevation of 
thought and language are far beyond what we observe in our current 
poetizing.” — Literary Gazette and Publishers' Circular, 

‘‘Some parts of the dialogues are full of beauty.” — The Press. 

“ ‘ Herodias* is a Christian drama, enacted in Palestine. Antonius 
is a Pagan tragedy, transpiring in Britain. . . . The first is a 

striking composition, with large scope of design and force of delinea- 
tion. . . , But Antonius is more powerful and tragic. . . . 

Such plays are rare, — very rare. They are the results of a thor- 
oughly dramatic and original mind, which has been applied to the 
great masters of tragedy, and to the classic and permanent principle 
of dramatic composition. The result is not only in the very highest 
degree honorable to the author, but necessarily grateful to the reader. 
. . . We commend them, with extreme confidence, to the attention 

of all readers.” — North American and U. S. Gazette, 

“ * Antonius* is a grand poem, and a noble drama, full of strength 
and simplicity. . . , Detached passages, like these, give no just 

idea of the largeness and wholeness which characterize both ‘ Anto- 
nius’ and ‘ Herodias.’ ” — John Neal. 

SALOME. 

“ An intricate plot is well sustained through three volumes, each 
of which is complete in itself, although together they constitute a sin- 
gle work. The subject is a heroic one, and the author has grappled 
with it boldly and successfully. . , . The author displays great 

ability.” — New York Evening Post. 

“ ‘ Salome,* however, is but the sequel to ‘ Herodias* and ‘ Anto- 
nius,* which have already appeared and passed the fiery ordeal of 
stake and fagot, blast and mildew, and come forth like fine gold. 

. . . What shall we say of this remarkable drama as a whole ? 

This, and this only, that it is altogether astonishing; . . . worthy 
to rank among the finest productions of our day, both as a drama and 
as a poem.” — The New York World. 

4 • 


** Of * Herodias* and ‘ Antonins’ it is needless to speak. They have 
been received, not only with cordiality, but with enthusiasm, by the 
press and public. . . . The qualities that make Mr. Heywood 

an author of unusual promise are elevated tone of sentiment, strength 
and facility of expression, logical power in construction, apprecia- 
tion of good dramatic situations, and boldness in attempting a really 
original subject. . . . The movement of the story in this poem is 

rapid, and the interest is always sustained. . . . Taken as a 

whole, ‘ Salome’ is superior, in dramatic intensity, to the preceding 
poems, while together they form a work of great power and origi- 
nality.” — New York Leader, 

“ This, in its grandeur, is more than Greek, — it is Hebrew, — al- 
most scriptural, indeed Of course if the author is equal 

to the business before him, and capable di handling such a crowd of 
characters, amid such tumultuous incidents and scenery, he must have 
within him great dramatic power; and this we think he has; for, up 
to the last, the subject is bravely managed With the sim- 

plicity and grace of a naked Grecian statue, these dramas abound in 
situations full of interest, and are swelling in every vein and artery 
with pulsations that only true poets can feel or understand. . , . 

For a young American to launch a drama in three volumes, and one 
after another, as Mr. Heywood has done, without stopping to breathe, 
or seem to care much what contemporaries might think of it, before 
the whole should be completed, betokens an amount of manly self- 
reliance, which, now that we have all three before us, we cannot help 
justifying and applauding as absolutely heroic.” — Putnam^ s Maga- 
zine. 

** These poems will live to be appreciated as long as the English lan- 
guage endures,^ said Dr. J. G. Cogswell in a letter to a friend. 

Letter from the eminent scholar and critic^ the late Jos. G. Cogs- 
well, LL.D. 

“ My dear Mr. Heywood, — I want to put on record the impres- 
sion made on my mind by the great dramatic poem, or poems, Hero- 
dias, Antonius, Salome, — not that I consider my opinion of importance 
to the author, but that I want the credit of having anticipated the univer- 
sal favor with which it has been received by the best critical judgment 
of the country. Herodias, the first of the poems in the order of pub- 
lication, then called Salome, came into my hands about two years ago. 
I had not then heard or read a word about it, and I had no knowl- 

5 


edge of its author, I began to read it, more that I might not sit idle 
than with an intention of reading it through, but I found I could not 

stop, and did not close the book until I had finished it 

It was marvelous to me that I had not heard of the poet who had 
caught the highest spirit of the Greek drama and with it combined 

that of the Hebrew prophet Never was a lofty flight 

more triumphantly sustained. There was no exhaustion of power by 
the first effort ; the three parts are marked by the same lofty thought 
and the same felicitous language The individual char- 

acters are all drawn by a master-hand, and, as delineations, are per- 
fect and consistent throughout 

« Very truly, and with great regard, your friend, 

“Jos. G. Cogswell. 

“New York, May 25th (1868^* 


HERODIAS, ANTONIUS, AND SALOME 


ARE PUBLISHED BY 

HURD & HOUGHTON, N 

13 Astor Place, New York. 



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